Selected Writings of Anil Gharai (Voices from the Margins) [1 ed.] 1032342307, 9781032342306

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Voices from the Margins will provide English-speaking readers with a new and wide-ranging account of the literatures of India, one that acknowledges its linguistic, cultural, and geographical diversity. It provides through translation and critical commentary an opportunity to revise our notions of what counts as literary value. Jon Cook, Professor Emeritus of Literature, University of East Anglia

Selected Writings of Anil Gharai

Anil Gharai is arguably one of the most significant authors of Bangla Dalit literature. His works deal with the stark everyday realities of people on the margins and the complex interplay of domination and subjugation in these spaces. This volume of English translations of some of his most celebrated works seeks to introduce his writings to a new readership in India and abroad. In his works, Gharai explored caste-based and gender-based oppression in the rural areas of coastal Bengal. His protagonists are from remote spaces, from the Dalit community or the indigenous communities—men and women who work and live in extremely exploitative circumstances and whose lives are depicted by Gharai with great care and detail. His novels, short stories and poems, translated in this volume, give voice to the unrepresented and offer a critique of the oppressive caste and class hierarchies and traditions in eastern India. He also focuses on the replication of patriarchal mores within Dalit society and culture. This volume includes critical essays on Anil Gharai and his long interview to reflect on his position in the alternative literary canon of Bangla Dalit literature. Part of the Voices from the Margins series, this critical edition seeks to visibilise the less visible literary texts and traditions. It will be of interest to those scholars engaged in contemporary Indian/South Asian literary cultures, comparative literature, modern Indian literature, minority studies, Dalit studies and gender studies. It will also be useful to students and researchers of social sciences and humanities. Anil Gharai was born on November 1, 1957 at Rukminipur in the district of undivided Midnapore. Kak and Noonbari are his first published collection of short stories and novel, respectively. His works deal with the harsh realities of the downtrodden people. He is not merely an author who depicts the beauty and vivacity of nature in his fictional texts; he is also an interpreter of Dalit life with a conscious urge to develop a new aesthetic of Dalit literature. For his outstanding contribution to literature, he has received many awards: Sanskriti Puraskar, Bharat Excellency Award and Gold Medal, Somen Chanda Memorial Award, Tarasankar Puraskar, Michael Madhusudan Award, Mahatma Jyoti Rao Phule Sahitya Puraskar and Bankim Puraskar. Anil Gharai passed away in 2014.

Indranil Acharya is Professor and Head of the Department of English, Vidyasagar University, West Bengal. Some of his major publications are Beyond the Sense of Belonging: Race, Class and Gender in the Poetry of Yeats and Eliot (2011), Survival and Other Stories: Anthology of Bangla Dalit Stories (2012), Many Coloured Glass (2013), Towards Social Change: Essays on Dalit Literature (2014), Listen to the Flames: Texts and Readings from the Margins (2016), Paschimbanger Bhasha (2017), Smritibiloper Pore (2017), The Languages of West Bengal (2019), Mahatma Gandhi in Bangla (2022), Geographical Imaginations: Literature and the Spatial Turn (2022), The Almond Flowers and Other Stories (2022) and Writings from the Sundarbans (2023). Dr Acharya is also the Editor of Janajati Darpan, the only international multilingual publication series from Bengal on Indigenous Studies.

Voices from the Margins Series Editor: Sayantan Dasgupta, Jadavpur University, Kolkata, India

Voices from the Margins  focuses on marginalized and less visible literary texts and traditions of India. It seeks to present anthologies of such texts in English translation buttressed by critical matter. The series aims to thereby challenge the invisibilisation that keeps certain texts and traditions outside the popular gaze. The true potential of translation for a multilingual country like India perhaps remains to be realized fully even today. This means that the idea of India, and of Indian literature, often remains a partial one as it is based on exposure to only what is written in English, or to the little that is available in English translation. And there is, of course, a complicated politics that shapes what becomes available in translation. This series will identify key Indian bhasha literary texts that can problematize and/or enrich our current understanding of Indian Literature when available in English translation. It will include a focus on marginalized languages, and themes of marginalization on the basis of caste (Dalit literature), language, gender, genre and region. The titles in this series will focus on individual authors and attempt to (a) create an archive of their key writings in English translation, and (b) create a critical perspective on this archive. The latter, it would try to do through the use of critical introductions and a focus on intensive interviews/oral narratives. This series will thus arm the readers with an alternative and more inclusive notion of ‘Indian Literature’ and empower them to challenge the existing hierarchies and exclusions currently pertaining to our idea of ‘Indian Literature’; it will also hopefully open up new possibilities for rendering these texts and writers more visible within our critical discourse. We hope that Voices from the Margins will bring on stage what has largely remained out of popular vision, and that it will force us, readers and academics, to confront our own aporias vis-à-vis our reading. Selected Writings of Shyamal Kumar Pramanik Dalit Literature from Bangla Edited and Translated by Sayantan Dasgupta Selected Writings of Anil Gharai Dalit Literature from Bangla Edited by Indranil Acharya; Translated by Anuradha Sen

Selected Writings of Anil Gharai Dalit Literature from Bangla

Edited by Indranil Acharya

Translated by Anuradha Sen First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Indranil Acharya and Anuradha Sen; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Indranil Acharya and Anuradha Sen to be identified as the editor and translator respectively of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-34230-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-64067-9 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-63871-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713 Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra

In loving memory of Late Shri Anil Gharai

Contents

List of Contributors Series Editor’s Preface Acknowledgements Introduction

xiii xv xvii 1

INDRANIL ACHARYA

I

Novella9 1 Noonbari

11

NOONBARI- ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

II

Stories53 2 The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)

55

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

3 Kalketu

68

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

4 Gung Tod

80

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

5 Kak – Janmo ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

85

xii Contents 6 Khadya – Khadak

90

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

7 Bhumi Kanya

95

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

III

Poems101 8 Hope

103

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

9 Life

105

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

10 Compliance

106

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

11 Hunger and Melody

108

ANIL GHARAI (AUTHOR), ANURADHA SEN (TRANSLATOR)

IV

Critical Essays on Anil Gharai111 12 Dalit Literature

113

SHYAMAL KUMAR PRAMANIK (AUTHOR), SUDDHADEEP MUKHERJEE (TRANSLATOR)

13 Women, Oppression and Emancipation: A Study of Anil Gharai’s Select Short Stories

123

SHUBHENDU SHEKHAR NASKAR AND SUNITI SARKAR (AUTHORS)

V

Interview135 14 Interview SUNIL MAJI (INTERVIEWER), AISHWARYA BANERJEE (TRANSLATOR)

137

Contributors

Aishwarya Banerjee (Translator) is a Junior Research Fellow pursuing her PhD in the Department of English, Vidyasagar University. Her thrust area of research is Tribal Studies with special reference to the Northeast. She has published a number of articles in prestigious journals. Ms Banerjee has translated the interview of Anil Gharai into English for this volume. Sunil Maji (Interviewer) is a retired Indian Air Force officer who shifted to poetry as passion. He has many volumes of poems to his credit. His literary career began under the stewardship of late Anil Gharai. Some of his poems have also been translated into Hindi. Mr Maji lives in Kharagpur, a railway town of Bengal. His interview of Anil Gharai is included in this anthology. Suddhadeep Mukherjee (Translator) completed his Masters from the Department of Comparative Literature, Jadavpur University. He is associated with the Centre for the Translation of Indian Literatures. At present, he is located at New Jersey, USA for doctoral research. Suddhadeep has translated Shyamal Kumar Pramanik’s Bengali essay on Dalit literature included in this anthology. Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar (Contributor) is an Assistant Professor of English at Vidyasagar University. He has more than ten national and international publications in diverse areas of Dalit and Tribal Studies. He is a recipient of the Charles Wallace Grant in 2022. He has contributed a critical essay to this volume along with Ms Suniti Sarkar. Shyamal Kumar Pramanik (Contributor) is an acclaimed Bangla Dalit author. He writes poems, short stories, novels, critical essays and autobiography. He was one of the founding fathers of Bangla Dalit Sahitya Sanstha. He has also been nominated a member of Bangla Dalit Academy. His short story “Survival” is one of the most anthologized Dalit stories from Bengal. Suniti Sarkar (Contributor) did her MPhil from the Department of Bengali, North Bengal University. She is currently pursuing her PhD in the Department of Bengali, University of Gour Banga, Malda. She has authored a few

xiv Contributors articles on Dalit literature in Bengali. Ms Sarkar has co-authored an essay with Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar for this volume. Anuradha Sen (Translator) is a noted Translator of Dalit texts from Bangla to English. Her first major translation was Anil Gharai’s maiden novel, Noonbari. Later, she translated a representative anthology of Anil Gharai’s stories entitled Stories of the Downtrodden. She has also translated Ananta Draghima—Gharai’s magnum opus. Ms Sen has translated a novel, two longer narratives, four shorter narratives and a few poems of Anil Gharai from Bengali to English.

Series Editor’s Preface

Writings from the Margins Volume 2 features a selection of the works of the late Anil Gharai. Gharai was one of the most powerful writers of Bangla Dalit literature. He has left behind a substantial body of fiction, poetry and essays. This volume features his novella, Noonbari, which focuses on poor women who spend their days extracting salt from sea water. It also carries a small selection of his short stories and his poems. This volume fits snugly into the logic of the series for, in spite of the charge of Gharai’s writing, circulation of his work outside Bangla has been rather limited. Gharai’s focus on the destitute and the downtrodden promises to open up new windows and perspectives on Bangla literature and offer a more nuanced understanding of what is today called Bangla Dalit literature. Landscape is another important element in Gharai’s works. Rural topography works its way vigorously into his writings and weaves an intimate relationship with the characters who inhabit these works. Hunger, extreme poverty and the dynamics of oppressive power hierarchies are woven into the veins of the texts carried in this volume. Caste and gender are both abiding concerns for Gharai. If he focuses on the workings of caste hierarchy in modern India, he is also equally sensitive to the position of women within patriarchal society. His fiction presents many women characters, and most of them, far from being mute victims, stake their claim to agency in different ways across this fictional world. In keeping with the larger objectives of this series, this volume also carries an interview with the writer as well as two critical essays—these will help provide context to his works, facilitate greater academic dissemination of Anil Gharai’s writings and also highlight the location of his works within the archive of Bangla, and indeed Indian Dalit literature.

Acknowledgements

The editor is deeply indebted to Mrs Sarbani Gharai, wife of late Mr Anil Gharai, for her kind consent to publish the translated works of Mr Gharai. Dey’s Publishing, Kolkata deserves special mention for the kind permission to translate and publish the fictional works of Anil Gharai. The editor also extends his gratitude towards Mrs Anuradha Sen, the principal translator and Mr Shyamal Kumar Pramanik, Mr Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Ms Suniti Sarkar for contributing their essays. Mr Sunil Maji, a renowned poet, deserves praise for holding the interview of late Mr Anil Gharai. Last, but not the least, special accolades are due to Ms Aishwarya Banerjee, a research fellow in the Department of English, Vidyasagar University for her editorial assistance and translation of the interview of late Mr Anil Gharai into English.

Introduction Indranil Acharya

Anil Gharai is one of those seminal authors of Bengali fiction whose heart lies with the hapless Dalit populace and his pen depicts their abject misery. In today’s mainstream society, the trials and tribulations of the deprived millions, located predominantly in rural areas, go unnoticed. Gharai has taken up the cause of the destitute, depicting in minutest details their struggle for survival. His stories sometimes move beyond the stark realities of their worldly life to create poetry out of acute suffering. A water supplier who survives on the deep crisis of water in a muffassil town, a man who deals with dead bodies for the police to earn half a meal in a day or a wagon-breaker who was compelled to barter away his spouse to labour contractors for a gift of coal are Gharai’s characters. And, they are “real,” being selected from the great collection of his significant experiences. Gharai hailed from a non-descript village in Midnapore to a family of poor peasants. But with his literary genius, he soon made the best use of his formal education to settle satisfactorily in life. But he could never forget his origin. Gharai’s literary voyage commenced in 1979 with a heart-wrenching narrative he wrote for the college magazine in Krishnanagar. As a railway engineer stationed in South Eastern Railway at Chakradharpur, Gharai has witnessed the poverty-stricken indigenous communities of Singhbhum from very close quarters. His second novel, Banabasi, dwells on the miserable plight of the forestdwelling adivasis. Gharai has delineated their miserable life in many of his seventy-four literary works. His first novel, Noonbari, published the pitiful saga of the salt-producing women, who extracted salt from sea water. In 1993, his three novels Mukuler Gandho, Boba Yuddha and Tarangalata were published in quick succession. Gharai has received many coveted awards in his literary career, including Sopan Sahitya in 1991, and a cultural award funded by Sawa Bharat Sanskriti Pratisthan, New Delhi. He was also awarded with the Paribrajak Panchanan Roy Academy Award in 1992 for his notable contribution to the contemporary Bengali literature and the Michael Madhusudan Award for excellence in prose fiction. He contributed regularly for various literary magazines and newspapers in Bengal, including Ananda Bazar Patrika. DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-1

2  Indranil Acharya He once commented on the chief purpose of his creative writing and candidly averred that degeneration of society around him and corruption at high places had inspired him to create his fictional oeuvre. Another comment of Anil Gharai is noteworthy in this connection: “Tarasankar Bandyopadhyay had penned classics based on the life of the rural poor, but he never explored their predicament beyond a certain point. I try to take off, in my own little way, from where Tarasankar drew the line.” Anil was quite upbeat on the recent trends in Bangla Dalit literature and the future trends of Bangla Dalit fiction in particular. Thus, the narratives of Anil Gharai start mapping the reality in a unique way where the depictions of mainstream fiction end: in a horrific underworld where the commonplace coalesces with the uncommon and unexplored, where human tribulations and the glee of living merge and gel effortlessly. Anil Gharai’s portrayal of reality moves far beyond the humdrum – to a narrative space peopled by the subaltern communities of a fringe society, seen in a never before manner. The ultimate outcome of this exercise is a hyper-realistic portrayal of a culturally invisible society. A major exponent of Dalit writing Gharai opined: “I am not interested in creating fiction. Every character, every situation in my stories is drawn from my own experiences.” But this statement also opens up a perennial debate related to the efficacy and applicability of the author’s imagination in this context. Anil admits the importance of imagination in the creative process even in the context of Dalit writing but with a difference – “I think it is enough to let your imagination determine the technical attributes of the work, and nothing else.” In the tribal heartland of Jharkhand, Gharai witnessed the pain and sufferings of the poor indigenous people with grave concern. His roots also inspire him to represent the unrepresented in the literary mainstream of Bengal. He fondly remembers – “I grew up in a little village in Midnapore district. My heart is still there. So I continue to write about my society, about the deprived and the underprivileged.” The rural subaltern population have appeared in the mainstream Bengali literature with a fair degree of regularity, but a lot of experiential domains remain unrepresented. Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay spun narrative yarns on the rural underdogs in a realistic setting. However, Anil Gharai could descend even further in the social ladder and capture the pain and humiliation of the untouchables. This was unprecedented in the mainstream Bengali fiction by the upper-caste bhadralok writers. Anil Gharai was not disposed to penning novels on the travesties of urban existence. “How can I write about a city when I have never lived in one?” He never belonged to the blooming tribe of the fame-hungry writers who think of nothing else but moving to a new place, staying there for a month and then surfacing with a readymade novel without any contact with the reality. For Gharai, writing as a vocation is all about a serious social commitment. It is a single-minded pursuit of excellence. In his own words: “I write and rewrite a great deal because I am never fully satisfied. It could be

Introduction  3 a whole chapter that puts me off, or a word. But I do not rest until I have set it right.” Gharai’s narrative style has added a new and bold imaginative use of peculiar inflexions of the dialects he makes use of in his stories for authenticity. It is a style honed to perfection through years of writing for the little magazines which thrive on the works of new authors and poets. In fact, the little magazine movement has provided fillip to many young writers and gave their talent a much-needed platform. Anil Gharai is an outstanding product of this movement. Far away from the simmering tension and the undercurrent of violence and anguish latent in his poignant tales about the social underdogs, Gharai has shown his great creative genius for another little world of children – full of joy, mischief and gentleness. His first story for children was published in Anandamela. Since then, he has published a collection of children’s stories, Lali-Duli. Gharai represents the new generation of Bengali novelists who have carved a niche for their fictional oeuvre. He has found his place in the hallowed company of his contemporaries – Abul Bashar, Amar Mitra, Bhagirath Mishra, Jhareswar Chattopadhyay, Afsar Ahmed and other new voices in the arena of contemporary Bengali fiction. These young writers have revolutionized the fictional prose writings in Bengali. These writers have experimented with new narrative idioms devoid of any artificial literary devices. That is really a reason why Gharai is so amazingly readable although he almost always writes about people we have only heard of, but have rarely encountered. He spends all his free time with the hapless and poor adivasi people, armed with a notebook. All his fictional works are products of his intensive field work in the remotest nooks of Bengal and neighbouring states of Jharkhand and Odisha. The genuine empathy with the downtrodden which imbues his stories prevents them from degenerating into mere diatribes. Gharai speaks of the inexhaustible energy and enthusiasm for life he saw in the midst of poverty and deprivation. Gharai admits – “Exploitation is a double edged sword- it comes as much from outside as from within the Dalit society. So I avoid pointing fingers. My job is to highlight what I see.” Naturally, Gharai becomes the spokesperson of the beleaguered Dalit voices in a world of bleak realism devoid of any representation of the mainstream construct of the romantic. Anil Gharai is a prominent name when it comes to the literature dealing with the people belonging to the lower rung of the economic ladder. In Anil Gharai’s works, we witness these marginalized people getting drawn towards superstitions much like the insects which get attracted towards fire. However, Gharai’s works make a relentless effort in pulling these communities from the sheer darkness of superstitions to a world of light. His works stand as a struggle to provide a spine to the already crippled society, drenched under superstitions. In the novel Banabasi, the characters live and die under the influence of superstitions. These children of the rugged soil spend their lives drinking hadiya and practising cockfights. They are customarily barred from cleaning their

4  Indranil Acharya house on the day of the cockfighting. Once, Sukormoni was heavily thrashed by Bhakuya for cleaning the house on the day of cockfighting. The belief was that it would lead to a disastrous defeat. Thus, the protagonists, instead of seeing the doctor for his ailment, consult an exorcist. The superstitions creep into their mindsets like a sly eagle; like an angry tiger, it silently pounces upon the believing minds of the people and overpowers it completely. The exorcist performs several feats that often take people’s lives. Roso’s son dies at the hands of an exorcist. Nonetheless, they are successful in instilling a sense of fear among the people about the world of the demons. He eagerly performs quite baseless pseudo tricks like jharphunk, throwing powdered substances or burning oil on the victim, hurting them deliberately by touching a hot metal on their body and thereby subjecting them to a never-ending saga of torture. Witch-hunting is yet another evil that touches the indigenous society with its deadly paws. Characters like Harimati, Sanichari and Basmati suffer pitiably under this extreme form of torturous maltreatment. In this connection, Mahasweta Devi’s Saanj Sokaler Maa, Bayen and Nairite Megh perennially come to the mind. In the novel, Mukhuler Gondho, along with the smell of Mukul there lies the stench of traditions. The upper castes do not even drink water at the hands of the lower-caste people. The vulnerable adivasi communities of the Chotanagpur region are no exception. Women are perceived as great fools and obstacles to higher attainments. Sita stands as an example. These vile superstitions and rotten traditions have engulfed the characters of Anil Gharai so much so that they no longer possess any courage to get out of its influence; neither do they have adequate means to get out of it. The hospital beds remain vacant, and the doctors tend to forget most of their training materials being out of practice for long but the people belonging to the rugged topography of Jharkhand invest their beliefs with incantations, sacred lockets and talismans. In reality, Anil Gharai’s novels and stories illumine the dark recesses of Dalit life in an unprecedented manner. Anil Gharai’s texts are a clear testimony of how the exorcists engulf the minds of the people completely and unchangeably. They become immune to reasoning so much so that these incantations and invocations become a major tool of their survival. In this world, people mask their insidious intents under the charming garb of being civilized. Basmati finds the ugly face of humanity that brands her as a witch. However, nobody keeps track of the brilliant red oleander blooming within her body. It is like coming under the sun after being cursed with a long night. The people too break the shackles of superstitions and walk free. Arjun’s belief in the power of incantations snaps in the twinkling of an eye. He realizes that all these incantations are nothing but a medium for extorting money. Even the exorcists die of venomous snake bites. Balaram, Fatikbura and Bindoomati are the representatives of an exorcist community. No amount of knowledge on incantations can quench the thirst of the arid and waterless land of Bihar in the scorching summer. Since the prehistoric age, the ancient

Introduction  5 men worship trees. This ecological ritual still persists as men still burn frankincense at the foot of Bokul tree. During the Gajon, the Bokul tree acquires the position of a deity at Burosibtola to whom people offer prayers of myriad kinds. Nature and Dalits live in close communion in this ecosystem. The novel, Biporeet Judhher Mohora, in spite of having Midnapore as its locale, shows that it too has been touched by the vicious tentacles of superstitions. Invocations, incantations, exorcism and the heavy dependence on sacred lockets and talismans are a testimony to the fact. That is the reason that Pramila’s elder brother’s reputation is sky-high for having an in-depth knowledge of these esoteric subjects. Baikuntha Buro performs a ritual of sprinkling oil upon urine to visualize the name of his patient on a round shaped mirror. The holy rural place of Shitalatala remains filled with people’s prayers. However, science could reach even here. Jogen believes that the doctor should be consulted to cure a disease. Urmila travels with Nayan to Egra or Kanthi for treatment. In the novel Bokrorekha, we witness the society being handicapped with alcoholism, cockfighting, gambling and addictive sports. The community subjects the innocent cocks to that blood sport and gambles on them. The steering of their lives is at the hands of their luck. Most of the characters find more peace in living by these traditions than breaking out it. In the novel Koler Putul, when Joy suffers from several fits of madness, some say that he has already been possessed, whereas the others claim that he is afflicted by apparent bouts of love. But nobody suggests a doctor. Sudha suggests that a horse should be bound in the nearby dargah of the Pirbaba. All kinds of incapacitated people get healed there. However, Joy’s tense mother, Hemlata, offers prayers and performs rituals for her son. From the heaps of mere nothingness, these people derive peace from the traditions. But it is from the ashes of traditions that a new scientific temper arises and it is stronger than ever like a Phoenix. In the stories like “Baliari,” we see people stigmatizing health conditions like leprosy as results of sins, thereby alienating the victims. The shaft of science fails to reach these corners. In the story, Mukhiya, in order to pacify his own interests, discourages people to use highyielding crops, instilling the fear in them that it would reduce the fertility of the field. However, Garima refutes such a warning and uses high-yielding crops. To her delight, she witnesses a steep increase in the production. In the battle between myth-making and scientific temper, the latter finally heralds its victory. In the story “Vote Budo,” the society typecasts Vote Budo as unlucky throughout the year but even he becomes lucky during the elections. In the works of Anil Gharai, we see the rise and fall of blind superstitions. They raise their heads but are also crushed by the bulldozer of scientific temper. But the impact is too miniscule. In the creative literature produced by Gharai, we see a blend of Bibhutibhushan’s love for nature, the umbilical relationship between humans and nature, and a poignant depiction of relentless poverty; Tarashankar’s expression of the aridity of the topography and Syed Mustafa Siraj’s preoccupation with the people belonging to the lower rung of society.

6  Indranil Acharya The works of Anil Gharai have sprung from the age-old beliefs of the Dalit people. Rather than going into the question of whether they are to be called traditions or superstitions, let us see some of the beliefs that the people are interested in: a Incantations, sacred lockets, talismans and rituals b Witch-hunting c Offerings towards gods and goddesses – often elaborate rituals d Belief in the presence of spirits and demons e Relating natural calamities to the rage of gods f Myriads of customs like spreading coins in the funeral journey or cruelly erasing a widow’s signs of marriage by breaking her bangles g Instead of treating an ailment, stigmatizing it as sin, thereby alienating a leprosy patient and considering chicken-pox to be caused by a goddess. However, Gharai’s works also encourage breaking the shackles of traditions. Characters like Garima, Arjun, Doctor Dayal, Hasan master and others are the harbingers of light in the world cursed by the darkness of superstitions. Gharai’s works, like a radium light of logic, have tried to heal the wounds caused by superstitions. That is why, the abounding presence of traditions and their impactful influence still surprise the minds of educated folks who are touched by the healing impact of science. To conclude, Anil Gharai is a word painter of the Dalit life. He has delineated the lives of the unknown ex-untouchables in an unprecedented manner. His keen power of observation minutely records the vicissitudes of the subaltern life. His popularity as a novelist of the downtrodden has led to the translation of his prose fiction in many languages – especially in Hindi and English. The first major anthology of Bengali Dalit stories contained two powerful narratives of Anil Gharai – “The Reincarnation of Parashuram” and “Sky of Draught.” The first story opens up poignantly the cancerous growth of superstition in a poor tribal family that results in mindless violence and a great familial tragedy. The mother is killed by the son out of a misplaced suspicion – she is branded as a witch. Gharai shows how superstitions eat into the vitals of tribal psychology and wreaks havoc in the immediate ecosystem. The second story is set in an environment of acute poverty where humans have to struggle with the non-humans for a morsel of food. The story reminds a reader of Manik Bandyopadhyay’s soul-stirring tragic narrative “Pragoitihasik” where the major protagonists Bhiku and Panchi fight with the street dogs to have their share of food. The second major anthology of translated Bengali Dalit narratives by Anil Gharai is entitled The Almond Flowers and Other Stories. There are thirteen stories in this collection that speak of thirteen marginalized characters chosen from different strata of Dalit society. The longest short story titled “German’s Mother” is a social thriller that astutely portrays the agony of a Dalit widow who refrains from exacting revenge against her husband’s

Introduction  7 assassin – an upper-caste landlord – despite getting a golden opportunity. The title story, “The Almond Flowers,” ruthlessly exposes the hierarchy of exploitation prevalent in the tribal society – the duplication of the patriarchal discourse in the context of indigenous society. The editor is greatly indebted to various newspaper articles penned by Barun Sengupta, Saheli Mitra and Saibal Chatterjee on the life and works of Anil Gharai. Prasanga Anil Gharai, an anthology of essays on Anil Gharai in Bangla, was quite useful.

I

Novella

1 Noonbari Anil Gharai

Abstract The novella Noonbari is set on the coastal belt of East Midnapore where villagers earn their living as salters. Labanga, the lonely protagonist, is crushed under the domestic drudgery; however, she refuses to surrender to the ordeal. She puts up a brave fight against the lewd scandalmongers of her village, and the oppressive, exploitative social system that cares little, but is critically judgemental. Labanga makes ends meet by taking up odd jobs and finally sets up a Noonbari for survival. Keywords Drudgery; Oppressive; Survival

Labanga turned around and her heart missed a beat. When the heart breaks, its shadow spreads over the face, and its colour is paler than the wings of the vulture. She looked at the village that was to become a visual reminder of all the joyful companionship that would perhaps never return again. Its red soil had been a silent spectator to her bliss and agony. And a sense of vacuum overwhelmed her completely. She was going back to her father. She saw the village, the country beyond the village, the dazzling afternoon, but she felt that she had no place in it. Her husband no longer cared for her. He has a woman at the gunj. She is beautiful and bewitching, not dark and ordinary like her. Kalachand had a mysterious liking for her and they had settled down naturally in physical intimacy. Whatever he earned went to her. What else could he do? Indeed, everybody in the family was won over by the magic of her words, and the dreams of a better tomorrow. Labanga had brought them only ill-luck and misfortunes. Her touch had ruined everything. She was a thing of ill omen. Everything she did was wrong. Actually, household matters were not important. Problems centred on her. As long as she remained, no other person can step in as the daughter-in-law. Can Lakshmi come in when another woman remained? She

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-3

12  Anil Gharai tried to adjust, but the tyranny of society marred her chances of a happy married life. Nasty quarrels and clashes ensued, disrupting the peace of family life. Labanga failed miserably in every step. Kalachand could not endure her and would often hit back like a bullying savage. Labanga was tired. She left the house in the pretext of plucking chikni. The fields were hot and dusty. The sun was bright and she could see heat waves rising. She felt she would never reach home. She had been walking mile after mile, ascending and descending the steep paths. Her son trailing behind. That morning, she was beaten for no reason whatsoever. Kalachand had caught hold of her long, black wavy hair and banged her head against the wall. It was so painful. She was utterly distraught by the physical abuse. The greatest pain was caused when Kalachand looked at her and then spat on the ground, cursing himself and the day he had married her. Her mother-inlaw abused her; her sister-in-law blamed for spoiling the peace of their house. She is nothing but a quarrelsome, ill-favoured ugly woman. Labanga said nothing. Faults are thick when love is thin. For she was ridden by the awful sense of her own limitations. She knew she had to leave; she would be chased out sooner or later. Before marriage, her father Jatayu had promised to give a bicycle to his son-in-law. Seven years had passed, but there was no trace of the bicycle. That was the source of Kalachand’s anger. Her father-in-law stopped talking to her. A gentleman is known by his words and deeds. Her father failed to keep his word. So what good should they expect from the daughter of such a man. And so after the birth of their son Nonai, their married life became dark and discontent set in. Yet, it was to her that Kalachand nestled every night as his body took fire and beat up in flames. The shame of his need weighed on her and she would weep bitterly. The marriage of Kalachand’s sister was fixed. The prospective son-inlaw was a rice merchant. His only demand was a bike, for, he needed to go around. But where would the money come from? Kalachand went to her father, but Jatayu’s life had become poorer. How could he help them, when he himself survived on charity? Labanga felt dreary and lonely. She could not blame her father; she could not even discuss the topic with her husband. So she suffered, like a sulking dog. She went to the pond side on the pretext of cleaning utensils and cried her out. She saw her reflection in the water and blamed herself for her lot. Her poor father advised her to adjust herself to her new surroundings. Labanga tried but satisfactory adjustment was a far cry. Very soon cracks began to appear in their relation, leading to despair. Sin sullied their conjugal life and the flower garlands, the green grass, the wedding crown, the marital knot and all other relics of marriage were swept away. The first shock came when she overheard her mother-in-law voicing lies about her and her husband agreeing to push her out of their house. Her faith in life was shaken and her own bitterness of disillusion was hard to bear.

Noonbari  13 Labanga could not put an end to her life. Nonai stood, guarding the way. Moved with pity, she knew that the navel string that connected his frail body to hers was too strong to be broken. Her aggrieved soul had found fulfilment through childbirth and the sight of her son overwhelmed her with a flood of love and affection. She remembered the days when she was overcome with awe and wonder, with happiness that made her soul leap, every time their child quivered in her womb. The fire of anger and hatred that had been burning steadily for the last seven years burst into flame. The other day, Kalachand told her to take poison and give him freedom. “You are of no use; I don’t want to see your shameless face. Woman why don’t you die?” Labanga knew that everybody in the family was busy talking about their ill-starred marriage. They would even like to kill her if necessary. For how else could they bring in the Lakshmi and enjoy her riches? They spoke about her father’s falsity, ridiculed her and scoffed at her. At such moments, Labanga felt despair overcoming her that brought in its trail the painful realization that she had to wrench herself away from her husband. She could no longer endure the frequent humiliation. She felt that it was time to shun all relations. On the village path coming out of the western side of their village, Labanga was walking rapidly. The overarching blue dome did not give her any hope or consolation. Oppressed by cruelty and callousness, she was in trouble. She did not have a roof over her head, no sky. The other one had slyly snatched away everything. Even Kalachand. Labanga was jealous of her, though she did not meet her. Only the other day, she saw a photograph of her husband and the other one. Together in close intimacy. It was rumoured that they had signed a paper at the court and then taken the blessings of the goddess. No wonder her vermillion line was so bright and beautiful. But it confirmed her sense of doom. Labanga set out with her son. She was not afraid because she was restless. With many a silent tear and faint averted feet, she trudged on. For two miles, she did not stop, till she reached the local market. Looking around, she wiped her face and then looked to her son; who was staring at the brick houses, and the taps in surprise. “Don’t you feel hungry, son?” “Yes. Give me some gram. I want gram.” Nonai ate it with relish and asked for water. Labanga spotted a pond in the middle of the market. As she forwarded to the crystal clear water, she was amazed to see Kanthiram. He came up and said rather hesitatingly: “Labanga.” Labanga remained silent. It had been a long time, since they met. Nearly six years. Kanthiram spoke again: “I never thought, I would meet you here. What luck! Where are you going? Won’t you come to Nonakhal?” “Yes, I will. Will you come along us?” Kanthiram nodded.

14  Anil Gharai “Then wait. My son is thirsty. Let him drink water and then we will set out. Together.” “Where is our Kalachand, our son-in-law?” Labanga could not reply. She looked at him helplessly as tears formed in the corner of her eyes. “I meet your father often. He feels you have forgotten him.” Silently like the sparking dew drops, Labanga’s tears fell. “Why are you crying, Labanga?” Kanthiram looked into her eyes, directly. He saw her nose ring on which like a pearl, lay a forlorn tear drop. Beautiful. Celestial. Illusory. Chapter 2 Jatayu felt sick. It was the tenth day of his fever. The grief-stricken father could not look at his daughter’s face. Poor man! He did not know how to remove the rust that was settling on his daughter’s life and bring back brightness, and polish. Labanga was silent and withdrawn these days. There was a haggard look in her eyes; she was worn out too. Only seven years back, she was so full of life and lustre, like the lush green grass that would create sparks of joys in her heart. She smiled to hear the rustle of the leaves, she joined the birds in their singing, she would hum as she did the household chores. When she came back after the day’s work, she would tell her father about little things. Jatayu’s poor little room would then resound with soft joyous tidings as he bent his ears to listen carefully to the rippling sound that zigzagged their way into his heart and lulled him to sleep. Jatayu could not sleep these days, not even with the rising temperature. His fractured limb also pained. He could not bear with it; he was a victim of malice and wrath. The dacoits had brought down their battle-axe on him mercilessly, while trying to escape. The people of the village felt that Jatayu would not live but Jatayus do not die so easily. They would remain as silent, mute witnesses to all the inhuman and tyrannical events. The burden of scarcity and poverty that he had been carrying on his back since then increased every time he fell sick. There was nothing to eat and there were three mouths to feed. Yes, craving for a square meal was what Nonakhal and its breeze gave freely to everybody who lived there. But without sweat and toil, it was impossible to get even a handful of rice. Saline water was available in plenty in Nonakhal throughout the year. Intelligent Labanga took stock of the situation. She did everything naturally and quickly. She was not ashamed of any work. During summer, Jatayu’s tea stall did not pull the crowd. The people wanted a glass of cold drink made with lemon and a pinch of salt. They could not afford it. A lemon cost one rupee, something they could hardly afford. And those who come to the stall were customers who could not dare to spend a full rupee to quench their thirst. When the steamer came one could spot a few strangers. The local market was two miles away from their village. People from the neighbouring

Noonbari  15 villages went there to buy their necessities. Then, they would visit the cinema hall, wander about aimlessly and then return home with wonder open eyes. Since Jatayu’s fever, Labanga had been working night and day to save her father and her son from starvation and death. She has a hardworking and enduring nature. Jatayu wondered why such a girl suffered at the hands of a cruel society. He realized too that Kalachand had nothing noble in his character. He had taken advantage of his helplessness and poverty to subject this child to pain, hardship and torture in more ways than one. Labanga nurtured the hope that Kalachand would one day come to take them back. But days passed into weeks, into months; yet, the familiar footsteps did not reach her. She knew that he was happily married, to another woman. He raced about in his new motorcycle, a gift from his second fatherin-law. His business flourished; he had money that fetched him everything. Perhaps happiness too. The news hurt Labanga. She felt that she was a prisoner tied to the chains of social code that would choke her to death. A deep sigh escaped her and she turned her eyes towards Nonakhal, as the sound of the water dashing against the shores reached her. The sound actually passed through her like a streak of cleansing energy. She sought consolation and strength from the water that rose and then fell. Did the waves reach the destination; did they always hold their heads high? She missed her goal. But why would she rail at fate and count herself abused? When Labanga returned from her husband’s home, she found her ailing father in the midst of acute poverty, she thought she would try and solve the problem of her family. She would be able to steer the lifeboat to the shore, safely. But the shore was too far, the water, turbid and greedy. The boat’s sail and top mast were not strong enough to resist the toppling waves. Labanga gave the keys of the tea stall to her father. In a low voice, she said: “I could not manage the stall. Our village is a den of the wicked. They think I am a commodity, easily available.” Jatayu wanted to know the names. Labanga looked at her father sadly. He was losing his healthy firmness of flesh. How could he face the ruffians? Netai Santra came often to their stall. He came with evil intentions. Never did he pay for the tea and biscuits. He said to Labanga one day: “Write it down against my name in that book.” He came back again and said: “The day I take you to the sandbank I will pay you in cash. No credit on either side.” His words bred a feeling of hatred and revulsion in her. Labanga stared, helplessly as Santra stalked away. She knew that he desired to possess her because her family was caught in distress. Since he was vain, he treated her in a shabby way. He was the most trusted follower of the village Chief. He roamed about with his red motorbike. The Chief did not lag behind. A downright lecher, he too approached Labanga to satisfy his sensual desires and animal instincts. He was however shrewd and tactful in his black designs. In a low voice, he said to her:

16  Anil Gharai “Tell me what to do. Netai is always with Abala. I feel so lonely. There is no one to look after me. But if you look after me and my needs then you and your family will have a roof on your head, and a square meal always.” Labanga turned her face away. She felt sad to see the degradation of her village and its folk. She suffered from a sense of inferiority complex, as she could not give a fitting reply to the Chief. She remembered Kalachand; she longed for him. She remembered clearly the first time he drew her close. She had then remained still as anchored to a rough sea. It was their restoration, their recognition. The denial of physical passion, crude tension and conflict in her soul brought in a painful feeling. Despite touches of cruelty, he had great force of attraction in him. Labanga never wanted to leave him, in spite of the beatings and abuses. But the gulf between them began to widen, till one day she was compelled to run away. Many a night Labanga sat on her bed, looking at the darkness. The night and the star-studded sky failed to provide her solace and comfort. The chill night wind passed through her breasts and over her shoulders. She shivered and craved for Kalachand. For in spite of the clashes, their sexual relation constituted a deep and complete consummation. Kalachand was happy with his new wife and motorcycle. Perhaps, he would never come to her. He had no need for her, but Labanga needed him desperately. She could not walk through this life alone. Her father was fast asleep, but Labanga stared at the night sky. She tossed restlessly on her poor bed listening to the different sounds. Their hut was overpowered by the darkness. The earthen lamp was too feeble to dispel the fears that kept on multiplying. Her son Nonai was coughing. If anything went wrong, would she be able to save herself and her son from destruction and ruin? She sat like a statue. She gazed at the night sky but her gaze was vacant and blank. The night life was conveyed to her by the breeze. Sounds came from the trees and shrubs, from the canal that sent distinct melancholy notes of an altogether different timber to mingle with the breeze. And it made her acutely aware of her loss. She pulled a sheet, turned aside and drew Nonai close. At this time of the year, winter still lingered. The embankment could not prevent the chill air that blew all the year round. On moonlit nights, the embankment could be seen clearly, clad in the silver light of the moon. It looked unearthly. During monsoon, had it not been for the embankment the fields and fallows, the dreams and hopes, everything would have washed away. Everything needs a support. The embankments on either side of Nonakhal beautiful in their wildness, aroused sensuous warmth in her, it made her pant with agony. Like the flooded river that smiled in a reckless devastating form and dashed against the shores, Labanga fell on her bed to lose herself in waves of her black hair. The turbulent swell of desire, so sensational and exciting ebbed out, and she sank into a deep slumber.

Noonbari  17 Chapter 3 Falgun set in with its glory. The trees put on new leaves. The people of Nonakhal woke up from their slumber. Their hearts are warm and the wind fresh. It spread its fragrance in the minds of the people. They shook off their lethargy and plunged headlong into work. Labanga searched without success some light occupation in the immediate neighbourhood. She wore herself out doing odd jobs to earn money, to meet the requirements. The people were willing to take her as a hired hand, for a meal a day. But the system would not sort out her family crisis. For a few days she tried her hand at making a kind of food made by parching rice on hot sand. Without experience even such work did not fetch money. Labanga did not repent. She knew that the impossible would be possible tomorrow. She would not be a burden to her old father. She would stand on her own feet by her honesty and integrity, by the sweat of her brow. Labanga began working at Poddar’s husking machine. But her employer was informed that she could not work very well, that she took home grains of rice. Old Poddar was a wicked man. Suspicious and close-fisted by nature, he tore Labanga’s blouse showing her rotundities to his men, in the name of searching husk and grains of rice. Helpless Labanga tried in vain to save herself from such humiliation. ‘These are only particles, Babu, Paltry things on which you feed your cattle and peafowl. You threw it away. I collected it from there. Where is my fault?” Jatayu returned from the hospital the day Labanga lost her job. The old man could only lament: “A girl cast away, in poor and humble conditions. Always in danger. People eye her with evil desires and whisper about her. They bully her and degrade her. She becomes a victim to their lust.” Labanga knew that her father spoke the truth. She did not have any experience of life. Naïve and innocent, the sorrow in her life was the result of social customs. The words of the mean and the wicked pierced her with horror. She grew sick at heart: “O God! How am I to know all these? Why didn’t you tell me there is danger in men folk?” Jatayu needed rest and food to recover. Poor Labanga did not know what to do. There were wrinkles on her face. Sometimes there was a note of sorrow in her voice. She sold the three bottle-gourd and bought fish. But there was no rice. Labanga was determined to give her father rice and fish. She made up her mind to go to her childhood friend Abala. She thought of their childhood days when they were sheltered and secured; she remembered the tears that followed their mischiefs, the smiles to see the green meadows, the flowery groves, and the grass covered hills and specially the canal that quenched the thirst of the land and the living.

18  Anil Gharai Then Labanga left for her father-in-law’s house. Abala went the next year. But not to live happily ever after. Abala returned, a widow, after only one year. She did not speak of her husband. Not anymore. Forced by fate and circumstances she became Netai Santra’s mistress, all too soon. Abala gave Labanga a kilo of rice and four big potatoes. She said, “What is this? Don’t you eat?” Labanga could not reply. She wiped the teardrops that trickled down her cheeks. Did they convey to her dear friend her pathetic condition? Abala looked at Labanga’s youth with wonder and surprise. How did she keep her passion in check? Stop it from rising in a crescendo, culminating in physical consummation? She was overwhelmed to see the self-disciplined Labanga. With a voice shaking with emotion she said: “Dont cry. Life is marked with rise and fall of joy and sorrow.” Labanga swallowed hard and said, “Get me some work, please.” “Will you do as I say?” “Yes.” “Set up a Noonbari. Many families in and around Nonakhal survive on that. You will also survive.” Labanga smiled in her sorrow. Noonbari was not for everybody… everybody could not endure the salt water. She was filled with apprehension as she brought up the subject. Jatayu said nothing. What value did his opinion carry? He was bent and broken. Yet, his daughter wanted his advice. It was no mean job to run a Noonbari. Still, as Labanga wanted to take up the work, it would be foolishness to try to stop her. Many girls in their village toiled day and night to make both ends meet. Peace and contentment completely eluded them. The air of the village was polluted. The lives of people were repressed due to want and scarcity. They ceased to give spontaneous outlet to their natural emotions and sentiments. And this was brought in by industrialization. With the changing times, problems and exploitation have also changed its ways. The air of the village is poisonous. The people are in deep sleep. If girls like Labanga wish to wake up, what is wrong? The village looked towards the town for sustenance. So the poor and the helpless, the women accumulated salt water, boiled it and collected salt from it. They met their own expenses from their little money they got from selling salt. Such thoughts came to Jatayu as he stared at his daughter. At the time of war, he had got a job in the army. But the love and affection of the villagefolk stopped him. Even then, in the past the canal flowed by the side of their village. There were snakes in the water; there was want and scarcity yet they trudged on. Labanga looked at her father, lost in thought: “What are you thinking of?” “About you, daughter. Who will look after you when I am dead and gone? There is discord and disharmony everywhere, between everyone, not

Noonbari  19 to speak of the wild dogs that move about. Will you be able to tackle all this? All alone?” “I will live father; I want to live. I will not give in easily. If, however, the adverse circumstances of life attempt to break me into pieces, the water of Nonakhal will give me shelter.” Labanga thought of her father’s words as she sat washing the utensils at the pond. She knew her father was right but she would have to throw away all fears, all the conventional theories in order to survive respectfully. And, respectable survival turns out to be the only succour of life. After her resolution to work, Labanga felt happy and light. The past was past. She saw the green trees in front of her. The birds were chirping and the sun was shining. After many days she oiled her hair. As she was about to put a vermilion spot on her forehead her hand trembled and the red powder fell on her nose. She thought of her husband and an inexplicable passionate longing deeply disturbed her mind. Abala led a secure life. A security bought at the cost of selling her soulless body to Netai Santra. Labanga was sure that Kalachand would never come to take her back. Yet, she had to safeguard the vermillion line. Her expressions hardened. She came outside, and the dazzling sunlight made her heart light. She closed her eyes and took in a long deep breath. Chapter 4 Silence and silver light of the moon ruled the ground. The tall trees, with gentle roosting birds in sleep stood tall and straight. The water dashed against the moonlit shore and produced a line of foam; Labanga heard the sound of waves. It made her sad. Labanga did not want her father to come with her. But to Jatayu, night was associated with evil. It had swallowed up his happiness and was trying to devour his only child. So he came limping slowly. Labanga stood on the sandbank. After a long time, she said: “How long does the high tide remain?” The turbid water dashed against the bank and carried off mud and silt. Its ruthless beauty invoked a sense of fear. Jatayu looked at the whirlpools. He felt those were traps laid out to trap his daughter. “What are you thinking of, father?” Jatayu replied with his eyes fixed on the water: “No one in my family…” “Not even for a square meal.” “Your mother made salt only for household purposes. That was before your birth. We were not poor, then.” In the faint glimmer of the moon, the father and daughter stood still. Jatayu was too withdrawn since the day he heard of Labanga’s decision. Some unseen fear lingered in the corridors of his mind. Salt did not bring good luck always. Yet without salt, everything is so insipid.

20  Anil Gharai The father’s anguished soul was sad to think of Labanga, her decision and her future. It was clear that the wicked would not let her live in peace. Labanga still had pulsating life in her. The devilish fire that flamed from the lewd, would leave her ruined. Labanga went down to meet the flashing buoyant water. At the time of high tide, the water flooded the whole area. When the water receded, it left behind salt hidden in the sand and mud. People from the neighbouring villages swarmed there like flies to mark out a space. They would examine the mud and then run to the priest. Even he waited eagerly. Phalgun-Chaitra improved his position too. Chanting incantations, he spoke to them about the auspicious dates. He would also tell them how necessary it was for them consecrate the sandbank. For, how else could they produce salt as white as hoarfrost, from the sand and silt? The water was rising slowly. Very soon, it would start trickling down from the embankment. There was fear of slipping any moment; yet, Jatayu was not perturbed. The sooner the thorn that stuck in his throat went down, the better. Abala and Labanga were always together. Their friendship evoked fear and worry in Jatayu. His daughter was not initiated into the ways of the world. She did not know the wicked and their ways. Would she be able to resist the blind, force seizing on human beings? Or will it bring ruin in its trail? Every village has its own code of morality, its own customs and its own ways. The people of Nonakhal also had their own custom. They helped the local poet to compose songs on Abala’s life, her abortion. The poet would sing the songs at “Gajan” in the month of Chaitra. Netai Santra’s money would not be able to stop the slanderous abusive attack on Abala. The scandalmongers spoke to Jatayu of Labanga’s decision. Some even warned him to be careful. For, who knew whether salt would end up with flesh, or not? Jatayu tried his best to keep a watch on Labanga. The words saddened him. But what could an aged father and a helpless girl do against the evil designs of the reckless men? The village Chief was absolutely enamoured by Labanga’s beautiful body. Whenever he saw her, he felt the thickening and quickening of his blood very strongly. His insinuating remark left Jatayu speechless. “Why Noonbari? Why such a tedious job? Her bewitching beauty is enough for ….” Mortified Jatayu broke down there. The young Chief burst out laughing. He knew Jatayu would not reply. Himself lacking the goodness and simplicity that Jatayu possessed, he gave vent to his anger in verbal assaults. Jatayu left the place like a dog mauled in a dogfight, his tail drooping. He looked back again and again to see whether the Chief was coming after him. Suddenly, he saw Labanga near the water. The silver light of the moon fell on her bare back and arms. Such sights pained Jatayu. He could not look at her.

Noonbari  21 Dependent upon and exposed to the oppression of the social system and the caprice of those in power at every moment of his existence, Jatayu was conscious of his helplessness in the face of the adverse circumstances. He looked around. Then with the help of his bamboo stick, he came down cautiously. The waves were breaking against the shore with a hiss of foam. The roaring canal dazzled him. The bank on the other side was empty. An old banyan tree stood there like a sentinel. The light that fell on the flowing waters from the boats presented a pageant of movement and colour against the background of the night sky. It had a soothing effect on his seething soul. Labanga stood there motionless from behind. She looked like a fearless fisherwoman. What was she thinking of? Perhaps she was thinking of her unhappy married life with Kalachand and the desire to live life again. Waves break so easily. Do human beings break down as easily? There are hundred waves in the human body; it has glee, exultation, spills and trembles. It is all broken only on the funeral pyre. The next moment, Jatayu felt that it was not Labanga but Hemlata herself. The girl had inherited her mother’s beauty and her hardworking ­nature – the same figure and long wavy hair that reached below her knee and almost looked like a garment. Labanga was very small when Hemlata passed away. Her lingering tears had dried upon her eyelids. The father and daughter then, sought consolation from each other. But now, her presence bred a feeling of revulsion in him. He remembered the dirty remarks and once again his helplessness struck him in the very depth of his being. How would he answer Hemlata? Could Labanga overcome mundane attraction and remain chaste? Jatayu was at a loss. The thought of Labanga’s future tortured him. He wanted to end his daughter’s life in desperation. He could no longer bear the vulgar remarks against her. He decided wilfully, to put her out of count, act from the brute strength of his own feelings. He might drown her if he would. The swift current raced on. One push into the current and Labanga could not be saved. And then there would be no more reproach, no scandal. But the next moment a sense of sadness and loss crept into his soul. Slowly, he took stock of the situation. He writhed in pain and an agonized cry came from the very depth of his soul, he slipped and fell into the water. Labanga shrank back for a moment uttering a cry. The struggle with the waves was terrible. It lasted till it was agony to Labanga’s soul. Jatayu seemed to swoon. His walking stick slipped away only to fall into the whirlpools so dangerous in their movement and force. Finding no other support, Labanga threw her sari to her father. Then she went down into cool dark water that seemed to grapple her from all sides. She caught her father firmly, and pulled him out of the water. She grinned even at this critical moment to think she had overpowered the waves. It was quite some time before Jatayu came to himself. Labanga stood still, nude. She tied to cover herself with her hands, shivering all the while, as down her cheeks rolled a tear that glistened in the moonlight.

22  Anil Gharai Chapter 5 Birds of different hues and shades, of different species, like the crow, dove, sparrow, kingfisher and ducks of different size, crowded the banks once the water receded. Labanga chased away two crows and walked towards the canal. She could see her footprints on the soft mud. In November after the harvest, the footprints of Goddess Lakshmi adorned the rooms of her fatherin-law’s house. The thought brought tears to her eyes. The crows came again. The sandbank looked desolate and forlorn. During high tide, rushing turbid water seemed to be indifferent and irresponsible like the rich. The water spread itself idly on the bank, as though savouring the time and respite from its busy schedule. Then when it withdrew, it left behind silt and sand. And all such activities went on silently. Old Narahari could say how much salt the water contained. The people of Nonakhal depended on his matured opinion. This year of course nobody would go to him. Narahari and Netai Santra were always together. But the link-up was not as pure and natural as the converging of the canal with the ocean. Narahari possessed supernatural power. Yet, the same power emitted a fleshy rotten smell for Abala. He no longer frequented the sandbank. He could not help his neighbours. That day Labanga came to the bank early. She wanted to mark a space for herself. But to her surprise she saw the areas where the water formed a little pool, already marked. As far as her eyes could see, it was only a long line of marks with twigs, branches and ropes. Labanga was filled with a deep feeling of frustration and despondency. How ignorant and naïve she was! Her hopes vanished. Her eyes became dim with tears. The canal that extinguished poverty of the land and its living beings seemed to stare back at her. Labanga started walking aimlessly, but with a regular and steady speed. She did not see the rope securely tied around the four-bamboo sticks in a rectangular form. She fell down and the pointed bamboo stick cut her ankle. Not knowing what to do, she put her hand to the wound, only to be smeared with blood, all over. She sat there, all alone. She did not know there were so many devices and contrivances to mark space. Salt needed hard work and toil and loving care. Any lapse in it and it would turn away. In her determination to find a space for herself, she had come as far as the burning ghat. She did not fear shadows but wanted to avoid all mankind. She wondered why the sun shone on the just and the unjust alike. She walked straight on. The wind played with folds of her flimsy sari revealing her arm, neck and part of her breast bare, with its softness and firmness. Labanga shivered. She could not walk. The cool breeze, the whistling leaves, the golden rays held her spellbound. She sat down on the moistened ground. A delicious fragrance reached her. As she folded her arms to sit comfortably, her conch and

Noonbari  23 coral bangles produced a melodious train. The sweet soul-stirring note rolled down to the waters, and filled the nook and corner with its captivating music. Labanga, caught by the magic and bliss of the waves, stared at it in amazement. Her silver necklace came down to her waist, leaving behind the curve of her heavy breast. In the quiet dawn, the thrill spread into the furrows of her shapely body, to her veins. Labanga bit her lip and stood up straight. She thought of Kalachand and was filled with remorse and self-reproach. She quickly broke a few slender branches and planted it in the wet soil. Then, she went up for a stroll along the sweeping shore of sand. The way home was through a cluster of trees. Labanga turned, trying to save herself from the lascivious wind. On her way back she met Kanthiram. He stopped short as though he had been a ghost. Labanga laughed: “It’s me. Can’t you recognize me?” “O Labanga! What are you doing here so early in the morning?” “I want a place, a spot to mark.” Kanthiram smiled: “So we are partners. Come; let us see if we can find any place.” Labanga met Kanthiram the day she left her in-law’s house. She was too scared to speak to him then as she was afraid of criticism and defamation. So she refused the paan he had offered her. She feared to redden her lips, but her mind was already tinged with bright crimson colour of the early ‘Basanta,’ weaving dream upon dream. In the lovely surroundings of nature, Kanthiram got a chance to observe Labanga closely. He became curious about her. He felt life has been cruel to her. Labanga felt uncomfortable under his stare. She tried to pull her sari, but she was wise enough to understand that Kanthiram’s glance was different from that of the village Chief or Netai Santra. Deep below in her soul there was an undercurrent of emotional hunger. She could not but bask in pleasure and contentment, every time he looked at her. With his vigorous slender body, the healthy glow on his cheeks and tumbling hair, he was, to Labanga, the perfection of masculine beauty. His movements were so full of animation and so spontaneous was his response to life that Labanga felt a subtle jubilation like glamour in his movements. She wondered how Kanthiram was able to save his simplicity and rich laugh from the onslaughts of the theatrical party of which he was a member. Whenever Labanga thought of his dark handsome appearance, blood rushed to every part of her body and she could never look full into his eyes. Suddenly, Labanga woke up as if from a trance. What was she thinking? For shame. Kanthiram’s eyes were fixed on her bare arms. Labanga blushed with pleasure and embarrassment. Each and every girl desired this appreciation. So, what was wrong in her longing? Kanthiram was different. He gave the impression that there was nothing wrong in life, no evil and that one has to be open to feel the joys of life. But, how did he manage to live with such innocence?

24  Anil Gharai Did the salty breeze make young men turn away from love? Did they not desire to sail their boats in the soft surging waves; allow it to drift on the full current…. feel the delicious delirium in the veins. If they failed to read the message of the eyes, could they hear the utterance of the soul? Was he a complete man who never smelt the fragrance and pain of a woman’s heart? Labanga looked up at the vast blue expanse. The world seemed so wonderful to her under the golden glory of the early morn. Gradually she came to herself. A sort of consciousness dawned upon her. Something strange, wonderful and horrible had happened. She was seized with a frenzied desire of what happened, must not be remembered and never thought of. She would not allow her flesh to be a drag and degradation. She would not be a burden. She would make the villagers understand that they could not trample her under their feet. She would work with zeal and enthusiasm. She knew she could even teach Kalachand a lesson but her desires battled with her conch bangles and the faint vermilion line. Yet she acknowledged that human beings are both body and soul. The body cannot be denied always. Rather the two must work in harmony. Physical union of Labanga and Kalachand could be extremely satisfactory. But, she rudely spurned and hated the idea. Labanga saw before her a long and steep path down which her sad soul would tread seeking to make a universe of its own. Chapter 6 Only three days of scorching heat. The sandbank lay like a paralysed creature, its back covered with scab and dry blister. The area was filled with smell of salt. All the water plants and weeds had dried up still the birds came, fluttering their wings and turning a back somersault they stared at the water. A flock of cormorants swam right into the middle of the canal. They dived in and pulled out fish with their long beaks, leaving a broad wake of white blue water behind. Labanga turned to her work, thinking nothing could surpass this beautiful picture. There was less trouble from the ants and insects for the birds swallowed them. There was an air of festivity at the side of the shoal. The poor and the downtrodden crowded there. As they walked to and fro, the blazing bank threw up needle like dust, which went up in a circular motion, carrying the dry leaves and moss. Labanga was busy. She reached the sandbank at dawn. But the mischievous wind did not let her work. It was difficult for her to knead the soil for the needle like dust hurt her eyes badly. The common crow, the heron and the rook were busy eating insects. The blind crane sat by the side of the water.

Noonbari  25 Labanga was busy scraping soil. The work required patience and perseverance, wisdom and keen observant eyes. Though Jatayu did not bless her new enterprise yet he had taught her the trick. “Rub the gluey mud with your feed and you will feel the roughness in your heels. But be careful. If you rub too much then the salt will remove the upper layer of skin from your feet and scar them with agonizing cracks. Labanga turned pale, but Jatayu assured her. “There is nothing to fear. Salt does not demand blood. It gives. If we do not take salt our mouths feel tasteless, the world seems insipid.” So, Labanga was happy and contented. She passed the afternoon without a wink of sleep. She had no worry, she did not even think of Kalachand. If she had to forget him then she would have to do something. Yes, she would be a salter. By hard work and common sense, she would prove it to the villagers that the girls would neither be creepers nor remain helpless to be trampled like the soft foam of Nonakhal. Labanga felt tired. She had been sitting on her haunches for a long time. She could not squat down, for then the people would eye her suspiciously, and blame her. Labanga did not believe all such nonsense. If the soil was perfect, the water thick enough then salt was bound to form. The three days of a month could do nothing to spoil her efforts. She was proud of her work, her pleasantly soft and smooth body. She knew she looked beautiful. But she was scared of the flame that ran under her skin. She was no longer thin and pale, though she did not get a square meal every day. People looked maliciously at her curvaceous figure. Beads of perspiration travelled down to her navel leaving behind her silver chains. Somehow Kalachand was back in her thoughts. Kanthiram came forward shaking his head. His tumbling hair, shiny black moustache, his rich ringing laugh both attracted and baffled her. It also made its impact on all who came in contact with him. “When did you come, Labanga?” “It’s quite some time now.” Labanga tried to sound normal, and concentrated on her work. Kanthiram’s plot was beside hers. He stood there for a moment and then pulled out the branches. He threw them into the water. Labanga said to him, “Why did you do that?” Kanthiram looked at her. His keen look made Labanga feel as if she were numbed by some powerful drug. “The branches are so much like you. The sun and the rain cannot do anything. That nearly dry branch will find a place … spread its roots … cover itself with green leaves and flowers.” Labanga felt how correct he was. Kalachand had thrown her out. Since then she had been struggling to survive. Kanthiram was silent too. He felt that salt business was not as lucrative as before. People could buy salt from the market very easily….Labanga looked

26  Anil Gharai at Kanthiram. She was not exactly at peace, but the turmoil was over and the flood of tears dimmed her vision. On the opposite side of the canal, a rustling sound from the tender saplings attracted Labanga’s attention. She thought of her son and her heart was light. She was filled with hope. Kanthiram had scraped a lot of mud. He sat on the heap holding his cane basket over his head like an umbrella. “Do you like my umbrella, Labanga?” From the fissure and chink of cane, the glow of sun fell on his face. He smiled at her. “A man without an umbrella is an ill-fated man. He will not be able to save himself from the inclement weather. But if he has an umbrella no harm can come to him. Where is your umbrella?” Labanga was struck with surprise. His direct question spoilt her ease and naturalness. To save herself from his penetrating glance, she retorted back. “I am quite safe and sound. Go and get one for yourself.” Kanthiram started laughing. He threw his cane basket at her and said: “This is my umbrella.” The basket rolled down the sloping banks. Kanthiram ran after it. “Just see, the fool does not know of the dangers hidden under the water.” Labanga also laughed. Kanthiram stared at her smiling face. Her physical charms attracted him powerfully. His desires so long kept under control were growing forceful and it was Labanga who began to fan this manly flame in him. Labanga called out to her son, who was busy running about with a kite. He came at once. She said to him lovingly as she stroked his hair. “Don’t you feel hungry?” he nodded and his face lit up. The mother and son washed their hands and sat down together. Labanga hesitated for a moment and then called out to Kanthiram. “Are you going to fast?” Come, let us share the little we have.” But Kanthiram refused politely. Nonai also refused. He wanted dried fish. He did not like to eat stale rice, soaked in water, and a slice of onion. He would not listen to his mother’s words and a full deep cry rose from him, but his shrill sobs were suppressed by a heart-rending cry. It was as though someone was struggling with mortal pain. The birds flew away; even the cranes left the sandbank and sought shelter in the branches of the tall trees. Kanthiram ran to see what the matter was. Labanga followed him – but she fell down. Little Nonai came and stood beside her. He looked at his mother with his round eyes full of fear and love. “Are you hurt, mother?” Tears came to Labanga’s eyes. She felt with Nonai that she would overcome all hurdles. She sat there, holding him in a tight loving embrace, with tears in her eyes and smile on her lips. Just then a piercing cry reached her. Netai Santra passed them. He frightened Labanga with his terrible laugh. His look told her his devilish mind was planning something.

Noonbari  27 Labanga heard the cry again and holding her sons hand rushed towards the place. When Labanga reached the spot, she found every little space congested with people. She struggled to a curve way. She could not understand anything. The fight for occupation of land was over. The occupier was busy. She shuddered to think of the fight. Unless one came to the bank, one could not imagine that the people lived in such straitened circumstances. The determination to occupy land at any cost spoke not only of their struggle for existence but also of their desire to live. They would take home the mud and silt and make salt. Then, they would sell it to Poddarbabu and take rice. Back home, with their children and the family members, they would have a feast with rice and fish. This was what they hoped and waited for. A deep pain caught hold of Labanga as she realized that nothing had changed with the passage of time. Only essence had changed. She was one of them too. The first time she saw them, years before her marriage, she felt that there was a spirit of competition among the possessors. But now the same mind and spirit was charged with gunpowder. Malicious and spiteful, they were ever alert to see how many baskets full of silt the other took home. As she jostled and pushed, Labanga saw to her horror, her next door neighbour, old Jata. He was crying and trying to make people believe him. He had reached the spot early morning and scraped about five baskets of salty mud. Then, he went to relieve himself. On his return, he found Felna, that Habati’s daughter, going away with it. He tried to stop her, “this is mine, you will not take it, and I charge you in the name of your dead father.” But Felna began running and the old man finding no other way caught hold of her waist. It was then that the girl screamed, “O save me, he is trying to rob me of my dharam. How will I show my face?” Labanga saw to her horror that he was made to pull his own ears, stand and squat with the count of one, two, three…. As the counting reached ten, Kanthiram rushed in to save the old man from humiliation. ‘Stop! I say stop! Come away. Let me see who can force you to do it again.” He paused for a breath. Looking around slowly as if to take stock of the situation, he hissed at them. “All spineless bastards! Don’t you see? Can’t you see?” Netai Santra stepped forward. It was too much for him to bear. “You dare to disregard the Chief’s order? Where are you going with him? He is punished for a grave offence.” “Wait for your trial.” “Here I am. Give your judgement here and now in front of everybody. If you dare to.” The Chief cowed down. He murmured: “You will see, wait.” Kanthiram heaved a sigh of relief as he came out of with old Jata. He wiped the sweat from his face and looked at Jata.

28  Anil Gharai “What happened? Why are you not working at your plot?” Jatayu looked around cautiously. Then he pointed to a heap, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Kanthiram was puzzled. A number of questions came to his mind. He looked at the old man with a frown on his face…. Labanga and Kanthiram were speechless. How? How could Felna accuse the good old man of seducing and defiling her? O God! How… why? Chapter 7 Labanga was tired. Her arms ached, her fingers were badly bruised. The hard work and toil had drained away nearly all her energy. Still she could not remain at home. If she did not bring basket full of mud, then all her efforts would be useless. Silt and mud would lose its quality, if people walked on it. Not to speak about the rain. A shower or two, and the silt would flow back to the canal, out of reach. It was quite late; she straightened her body to remove the inertia. She saw the soft golden light, pure and alloyed. It swept across the side of the canal … she was filled with joy of the vast glory. But the joy was short-lived. Soon, after the morning ablutions, she was filled with fear and anxiety. And all due to the small yellow-beaked singing black bird. One for sorrow, they say. No, Labanga tried to laugh away such thoughts. Jatayu returned from the canal side. He asked Labanga for a cup of tea. Without it he could not shake off the indolence. These days he woke up early. When the morning air sang among the leaves and buds covered with dew, and most of the people were blissfully asleep, Jatayu sat in the courtyard chanting the name of God. This was new to Labanga. For in spite of his faith in God, she had never seen him praying. There was no milk. And her father did not like tea without milk. But, he asked for lemon tea. Labanga was in a hurry to reach the sandbank. The pressure of work and the terrible heat had choked her energy and enthusiasm, to a great extent. Even, the strong and sturdy sought rest at intervals. She understood how difficult it was to manage everything, alone. Nonai was so small. He could not even carry the wicker basket. For a while, Labanga was lost in thought. She felt miserable to think that there was no one to hold the umbrella over his head, to give him shelter and security. She was sick of the struggle with poverty and meanness. Jatayu finished his tea and set off for Nonakhal. He told Labanga to stay back – he would scrape and collect mud. “But how? Your shops!” – said Labanga. Jatayu laughed. It was a sad smile, full of contempt. Fate had been very hard on him. Three tea stalls stood in a row. Babulal’s shop pulled the maximum crowd. People gathered there to read the daily newspaper as they sipped tea and chatted, and listened to music.

Noonbari  29 What about him? He did not earn even five rupees. Still, he went there and waited patiently. He felt sad for Labanga. She seemed to be crushed under domestic drudgery. She was skeletal and there was a drawn look in her eyes. And his heart melted. “Stay at home daughter I will go and scrape mud. You can bring it in the evening. All right. I will complete the household chores. Then coat and smear my Noonbari. I will begin work from Thursday.” Jatayu went out with the basket, scraper, spade and a meagre lunch. Labanga also began her work. She had kept the mud covered under dry Palmyra leaves, to protect it from rain. Sometimes it rained in torrents. Labanga was scared of rains. It would very easily wash away the deposit and with it the means of sustenance and sense of fulfilment. Labanga wondered if these had any similarity between her escape and that of the salts. She ran away from her in-law’s house, as she was ill-treated and reduced to a nonentity. Still, she could neither defy Kalachand nor refuse to satisfy his physical desires, night after night, every night. She received nothing from him except her son. Kalachand had tried to extinguish her life in the way people extinguish the slender wick. And so remained Kalachand. Distant, and wrathful, but with raging desire. Her faith in life was shaken. Her soul felt dreary and lonely in a world devoid of all tenderness and imagination, wonder and emotion. She despised her position and could not remain there. To her, the Noonbari was a befitting reply to her husband – a symbol of economic freedom. She wanted to live and survive independently. Was it wrong? No. Not even for food and shelter. But why should the salt flee? Was it a crime to want to live, to have courage and faith in spite of continued onslaughts of misfortune? Labanga was till smearing her Noonbari with muck, when Kanthiram came. He felt the Noonbari was like the salters. The salters had to make a cavity, then cover it again. Only they knew what a difficult and tiresome job it was. Labanga had cleared a spot in the garden and dug a hole for Noonbari. She spent a whole day. Yet so much was still to be done. In the evening Kanthiram brought a bamboo spout. Without it how will the salt water trickle down from one cavity to the other? He threw it at Labanga. Here take this. Without the spout you cannot do anything. See from one small hole, salt water will ooze out and the oozing will gather in an empty pitcher. When it is brimful, remove the spout.” Kanthiram smiled and continued: “Remember as long as the Noonbari has colour, hue and appearance it will get appreciation and importance. And that too for only three months Falgun, Chaitra and Baishakh. During monsoon, Noonbari is washed away. It ceases to have particulars about its identity.”

30  Anil Gharai Labanga listened to him quietly. Kanthiram was also quiet. He stared at her splendid luxuriance, so poignantly thrown at risk. Like a flower trembling and wide opened into the sun, she tempted him and was drawing him towards her. Labanga said, “What are you looking at?” Kanthiram replied, I have come to Nonakhal. I can see the powerful surge of water that will bear me far.” In a low voice Labanga said, “I do not know what you mean.” There was silence and coolness around. A rustle among the leaves, the air balmy and clear. There was a perfect balance in the atmosphere. Labanga’s flexible figure was an integral part of the scene. Kanthiram could not take his eyes off from Labanga. He could almost feel the firmness and softness of her upright body as he looked at her. To him, Labanga seemed to be a Noonbari, so he had complete authority over it. An all-powerful passion brought them closer. Labanga found herself engrossed in him. She lay in his arms for a long time, and each felt peace in the other. “Labanga,” whispered Kanthiram. He knew the force of his desire to mingle with her, losing himself to find her, to find himself in her in the garden under the cloudless western sky, tinged with the radiant glory of the sun. On the wavy lair of green grass, the two threw themselves. But before they had been carried away by the flow of passion Labanga stood up slowly, filled with guilt, shame and pain. Kanthiram did not try to stop her. He said: “You have to come back. The salt water trickles down, to merge itself with mud and salt is formed. I have that salt in my blood.” Labanga collected herself and went away slowly. She decided to take a bath again, and then cook something. She only had a cup of tea. Felna came in running, gasping for breath. Her face was covered with beads of sweat. She looked pale and scared. Labanga stared back. She knew something was wrong. Felna could not keep quiet. With tears in her eyes, she said: “Hurry up! Please! Nonai is drowned.” “What?” Labanga cried, there was no strength left in her. Ever since she returned to her father’s house, Labanga began to weave her dreams around her son. “Come on. Let us go. I saw him struggling in the water, gasping. His little fists trying to hold on to something for support. Nobody in the crowd dared to jump in – everyone is scared of the whirlpools.” She paused. Then looking at Labanga’s face stricken with grief, she said: “But Kanthiram is a brave man. Always ready to help others in distress. He jumped into the water. He has no fear.” Labanga ran as if chased by mad dogs. Her wet sari prevented her from going faster. She was covered with gluey mud. Yet, she ran. Leaving the dry

Noonbari  31 woodland path, the fields, she came down the sloping sandbanks. She saw the water and her heart missed a beat. Then, a heart-rending cry broke the silence as Labanga, the sorrowful mother called out again and again to her son, “Nonai, Nonai re… Nonai….” People came running. They tried to control Labanga who was tumbling on the ground, crying and blaming herself. She knew, like all others knew, every year Nonakhal carried away someone or other, to quench its thirst. But why “‘Nonai’? O God! Why?” Labanga sat there lamenting and beating her forehead. Then after what seemed to be an eternity, she saw as if in a dream, Kanthiram coming forward with Nonai in his arms. She ran forward with outstretched arms. Kanthiram put Nonai down on the wet sand. Then with both hands, he pressed Nonai’s stomach to bring out the salt-water. The little fellow lay unconscious. His whole body was cloaked with salt mud. Labanga threw herself on her son, people came closer, and their eyes fixed on her bare breast on which a teardrop sparkled. Kanthiram’s eyes warned her. Then he picked up Nonai and holding him high, he started jumping. Every time he did so, Nonai vomited water. Jatayu came forward. He said: “Kanthi, give Nonai to me. I will see how much water is still there in his stomach.” But Kanthiram refused to oblige. He said – “The water of Nonakhal is no longer pure. Let me drain out the dirt.” Labanga sat still. Her eyes dry. Chapter 8 The unwanted guest at the Noonbari is the ghoga. It made the salt-water flow down so swiftly that it filled the pitcher within a fraction of a second. Like the other salters, Labanga was also careful to protect her Noonbari from the attack of the dangerous insect. Labanga made two deep pits in the ground. The pits were separated by a thick wall. The first pit would be filled with mud and silt, and in the second an earthen pitcher. If the first pit was two feet deep, the depth of the second would have to be doubled. Or else how could the pitcher fit in there? And without a pitcher where could water fall. Labanga had a long argument with Kanthiram on this matter. He said: “But why such an unequal match?” “If it is equal how will I place the pitcher? And if I don’t place it where will the water accumulate? It is not a child’s plaything.” Kanthiram gave up. Passing a hand through his dishevelled hair he said with a smile“You have brains. You should have been a lawyer.”

32  Anil Gharai The work was difficult and time-consuming. Small, very small holes had to be made in the wall separating the two pits. Only then, could Labanga push in the bamboo pump out of which water would come out like spray and fill the pitcher. The hard work of the first and second pit was difficult indeed. However hard work with its, strain and stress was necessary to bring forth something good. Labanga felt that to a certain extent her life was but so. She had given up herself wholly to Kalachand but he was not willing to stay with her. The unwritten law of society always favoured the other one. They were fat better than the legally married one. If man desired to plunge headlong into the second, he would have to accuse the first, speak ill about her. Labanga no longer felt sad, she had taken it in her stride. Labanga decided to fill the first pit with mud before placing the pitcher in the second. The slit and mid should be pressed in. This was the most important task. There should be no air between the layers. It was the happiest day in Labanga’s life. Poddarbabu the salt-merchant had come to meet her. He gave her an advance and promised to buy all the salt. He even said that he would pay her in cash. No credit. The money he would pay is less than the market rate. It was natural in the initial stages of business. And she would have to accept it. Poddarbabu said to her: “Buy all the pots and pans, the buckets and pitchers, spoons, well everything you need. Remember only one thing, there should be no dark coating on the salt. Even if it is not milk-white, it should match your complexion.” Labanga laughed like a child. Right from her birth she had seen salters at work. She knew all the rules, the procedure and the tricks too. She assured him with twinkle in her eye: “No fear Babu. I will give you the best, though this is my first venture, still I will give you the best. I have taken great pains to remove the gravel; and saved it from insects.” The merchant went back satisfied. Labanga was worried about the colour. These days only appearance mattered. A polish, a glitter and the customer was pleased. Abala came in the evening. She said: “What is there to worry? He wants colour, so give him colour.” Labanga stared at her friend and told her that she did not understand her meaning. She said to Abala: “It is very easy to talk. From where will I get the colour? Babu said, spotless white.” “I will help you.” “How?” “Very easy. Go to Sahoo’s shop and get phitkiri. Sprinkle the water. All the scum will vanish, leaving the salt spotless white.” Thursday was an auspicious day. Labanga woke up earlier than usual. Today she would pour mud into her Noonbari. The salter had to be immaculate, pure-hearted and chaste. So Labanga was careful to see that there were

Noonbari  33 no faults and failings. She took an early bath, wore a clean sari. The utensils were new. Jatayu had brought them from the market. About ten yards away from the Noonbari, Jatayu made an oven to boil the saltwater. They could set the big vat on it with ease. The ladle was big enough too. Nothing that her father bought was of inferior quality. The advance was really helpful. As Labanga stood by the Noonbari, her eyes fell on the cluster of trees at the corner of the garden. From the grass came flowing to her Kanthiram’s fervent breath – how childish she had been. How irresponsible! How could she give herself to Kanthiram so freely? She shuddered to think what would have happened if Kanthiram urged the warmth into intensity. She took her eyes away and a deep sigh came from the depth of her being. She became acutely aware of the flow of life, which manifested itself in everything. The human and the non-human constantly mixed and blended as so many different expressions of response without which there was discordance and pain. Perhaps this was the reason that made her leave her husband. Labanga threw her basket aside and sat down. She wiped the beads of perspiration with her hand. She was tired. Carrying five baskets full of mud was no joke. But the pit was still not full. She stood up but Jatayu who had been watching came and examined the pit with an expert’s eye. He said to her, shaking his head: “The pit can hold six basketful mud. You have already poured five baskets. So stop. Won’t you keep any place for water?” Labanga smiled, a foolish smile: the smile lingered on her lips as she sat down again. Her father no longer harboured anger and resentment. She was thankful for his help and support. Without the experience and wisdom of the aged, no good work can be completed. After a while, Labanga stood up, she looked at the pit, and again it symbolized hope and confidence. She shook off her tiredness and went forward with a bucket to bring water. It was decided that Nonai would pour water, for Jatayu shrank back in fear. His touch would ruin all the efforts; wash away all hopes for a better future. Jatayu bent down to see the still water, carefully. If the dreaded insect had made its place in the mud then the water would move in circular motion, mud would slide down into the pitcher. After sometime he stood up straight, satisfied. He said to Labanga: “You have stuffed it well, daughter. Within half an hour, the water will trickle down. Place the pitcher carefully.” Then the father and daughter sat there watching, with expectant eyes. Water came in drops through the pump. Labanga tasted a drop and said happily.” “Father, this is full of salt!” Jatayu smiled in pleasure. It was for this reason that his village was like paradise to him.

34  Anil Gharai Continuous drops of water fell into the pitcher. The sound was so comforting, so enchanting! Her eyes become hazy. Nonai sat in the garden guarding the Noonbari from the dogs. They would come sniffing and then make the place dirty. It was nearly afternoon. The smell of salt, spread over the garden. Labanga went indoors. She could not afford to sit in the garden listening to the sound of water falling into the pitcher. There was work waiting. She decided to cook something nice. But the very next moment Nonai called out to her, in fear. The water was moving in circles, it meant only one thing – ghoga! Labanga bent down to see. Yes, Nonai was right. The mud was going down. She had to stop it. She ran to bring a basket full of mud. She had to carry quite a few baskets to get the water back to the normal position. She heaved a sigh of relief and was about to go back to her cooking. When her eyes fell on a figure walking under the shade of the trees, Labanga turned pale. She called out to Nonai who came running. He stared at her panicstricken face as she pulled him close and began walking towards their house. Nonai was surprised to see this change in his mother. He wanted to go back to his work of guarding the Noonbari. But Labanga simply refused to listen. She dragged him along. Then she pushed him inside a room and locked it from outside telling him: “Just keep quiet. If anyone calls out to you, don’t reply. The kidnapper is coming.” Nonai was scared. He asked in a low voice, “If he carries you away?” “Stop.” The kidnapper came up to their courtyard. Nonai could hear him walking around. Labanga saw him through the little window. She stood there holding Nonai’s hand writhing under excruciating pain, as tears flowed down her cheeks. Nonai said, “Don’t cry. I feel sad when you cry.” The kidnapper looked at the closed door. He came up and knocked: “Nonai’s mother, open the door. I have come to take you back. Open the door.” Chapter 9 Labanga was aghast. Her heart was bitter because she had loved him. She knew too well that Kalachand did not come to take her back. There was no change in him. He spoke with the same frown on his face with his eyebrows pulled close together. Jatayu too, did not pay much attention to him. Labanga said: “You have married that businessman’s daughter. If you take me back, what will happen to her? Will you send her away?

Noonbari  35 Kalachand could not reply. He understood Labanga was not willing to stay with his co-wife. But did it matter? He came for his son, not for Labanga. Why would he take Labanga back? He was not such a fool. He had a motor cycle, he wore fashionable clothes, ate good, delicious food, and went to cinema. His ill-tempered peevish mother had also quietened down. And all for his second wife. Why should he uproot the foundation on which his secured future rested? No, he had no intention returning with Labanga. It was his son Nonai. He came for him, his own flesh and blood. His second wife could not bear children, not any more. The two untimely abortions during her unmarried days paved the way for this sad situation. So, Kalachand wanted Nonai back. Such was the agreement between him and his wife. But he could not reveal his intentions, at least, not to his father-in-law. Labanga however saw through his plans. She stood face to face with the cruel deceitful man who tried in vain to hide his true colours behind the mask of sorrow. But the revelation was too shocking for Labanga. Never before did she feel so humiliated, so dreary and dejected. The flower of hope that she had tended carefully, withered away. The feeling of loneliness was so intense and sharp that she did not have adequate words to describe it. For then, she would have to spread out herself. No, she would never do that. She remained absolutely calm even when Kalachand feigned false emotions. “Come back home, I have come to take you. Without you everything is so dull and empty.” His words did not move Labanga. Not the least. She shook off his words with the same determination she tilted the pitcher away to drain away the turbid water. It was not difficult, for his words did not have much substance. Kalachand was amazed to see Labanga’s calm and composed face. It seemed to him, that to her the past was a closed chapter. He felt she had almost discarded him. And she wanted him to go away. But, the work which necessitated his coming was still not over. He tried to assert himself, yet there was a diminishing in his self-assurance. He told Labanga: “If you do not wish to return, let Nonai come back to me. I will get him admitted to school. Don’t you want to see him established in life? To be a support in our old age?” Jatayu wanted Nonai to go away with his father. They were too poor to afford him education. There were also so many difficulties and problems in bringing up a child. But he did not say anything. Labanga’s defiant eyes betrayed a proud temper. She had conditioned herself and was totally unyielding thereafter. Kalachand went away but not before he abused Labanga. Since then, Labanga had been working at her Noonbari. She sat there beside the oven, boiling the water, straining it. And all the while thinking.

36  Anil Gharai Labanga knew Kalachand would come, at least once. But she never thought that he would be so coarse and vulgar, so quarrelsome. Once again, she was in the grip of an intense anguish. Nonai was happy to see his father after a long time. He sat on his lap playing with his fingers. But his mother’s stern looks and harsh words made him leave the place. Kalachand tried his best to make amends for his previous misconducts. He brought pair of trousers for Nonai and a sari for Labanga. Labanga did not look at it. Why would she? It was a sin to touch it. Saltwater is sticky and juicy. The water in salt dried up very quickly. Labanga scraped it and tied it in a piece of cloth. Then, she placed the bundle on the dying embers. The fire smouldering under ashes would dry the salt within a few minutes. Standing there, by the side of the heap of ashes, Labanga felt that Kalachand’s nature resembled the ash heap that sucked the water completely. Kalachand had sucked all the flavour that her flexible body had, then he threw her out, like an empty bottle. Labanga filled it again with fragrance. She is someone’s daughter, not a slave. She is a daughter, a wife, a mother. She might not be needed by one but the other two need her. His uncouth manner left bad memories. But Labanga refused to be suppressed. She diverted her intensity to learning and working so that she would be respected. She did not wish to see her efforts wasted. It was evening. The deepening twilight cast a glimmer over everything. The clouds above the setting sun began to glow with a golden light. The sky, the land, the water took a golden hue. Gradually the light became dimmer. The golden ball sank behind the treetops. There was peace and tranquility. The soft gentle breeze that blew from the side of the canal was cool and refreshing. Women were busy with evening chores. From native houses came flowing the sounds of conch. But Labanga could not admire the view. Kalachand’s coarse and vulgar words kept coming back, it disturbed her immensely. She sat there like a statue, worn out by the hard work and the insulting words of her husband. “I know why you will not return. You are Kanthiram’s kept. You cannot live without him. Noonbari is just an excuse. You sit there, making a show of being morally superior, but actually waiting for him to take you.” “Stop. Don’t utter the sinful words again. He saved your son. He is my God. Don’t accuse him of what he has not done. Nonai is alive only for him.” Labanga’s word flayed his soul. His behaviour resembled that of a wounded animal. A furious storm rose in him and his hands quivered murderously. “You whore; you cannot fool me. I know you are in love with Kanthiram, that gallant womanizer. It is for him you roam about all alone. You visit the sandbank.” His eyes glowed and he continued:

Noonbari  37 “I don’t eat leftover food. Even if you begged me to take you along. I would have kicked you like a dog and chased you out from the village after shaving your head.” Labanga stood still. She would never forgive him. She decided she would fight a constant battle against poverty and shield her son from the ugliness of life. Her Noonbari would help her. Labanga depended on it. She loved it. Not only for sustenance but with a deep love for it. She dreamt about it every night and was thrilled. A dead soul was alive again. She could not differentiate the sound of the drops of the salt water from her heartbeat. This unmusical sound was like a silent life. She dreamt of a new life and could not drown herself in thoughts of death. At night she dreamt about it. The dream thrilled her and filled her with delight. The future did not seem so bleak any more. Though it was late, Labanga went to Poddar’s husking machine. Jatayu told her not to go as it had been a tiring day. But Labanga paid no heed to her father’s words. For if she remained at home, Kalachand’s words would torture her and she would feel weak. What mattered to Labanga was strength of mind. If she lost it, she would be strangled by the evil system of society. She understood her responsibilities and had no intention of shirking from them. So she went. Carrying the sack of grain, she walked on steadily. She was not tired. She would never speak about her pain and humiliation to anyone. It was late when she returned. Darkness had set in. Labanga could see all the trees and hedge rows draped in a dark shade of green, the curl of smoke coming out from the poor huts. She hurried. She had to cook, and Nonai must be hungry. Jatayu had gone to the riverside as usual for fish. At this time of the year the inebriations of the sweet-water fish made them take in the bait easily. So almost every night Jatayu came back with varieties of fish. Opening the wicket gate, Labanga called out to her son, “Nonai, Nonai. Give me a glass of water – I am too tired. When will you grow up? When will you ease me from this burden?” Labanga stopped muttering. The room was empty. She looked around. She had told him to guard the Noonbari. Where was he? Naughty and mischievous, Nonai could not remain in a place for a long time. The anxious mother kept the sack on the verandah and went out to the garden. She saw the nighthawk circling in the starlit sky. But where was Nonai? Muttering to herself, Labanga was suddenly seized with a nameless fear. She called out to him again: “Nonai, Nonai…!” The silence of the night was shattered by her shrill, piercing call that spread far. Gradually the sound died away. Labanga stood there, as the silence rolled back and engulfed the whole place again. The garden lit up with the faint moonlight, filled her with sense of desolation. It was too much to endure. Labanga ran to sandbank. From there to their burning ghat, then tea stalls. Finally, to the old banyan tree. But no, her son was nowhere.

38  Anil Gharai Labanga met Netai Santra on her way back. He looked at her long hair, irregular breath, the curve of her shoulders, her swollen breast, and it made him passionate. He said to her: “You look so tired. Come, I will see you home.” The fatigue of the whole day had made her very feeble and she could not speak. A tear or two trickled down her cheeks. “Don’t cry. Come with me to the side of the canal. I will give you twenty rupees.” Chapter 10 Jatayu returned alone. Nonai had refused to come back. He was happy with his new mother. She gave him rice and fish every day. She bought him different coloured kites and so many other playthings. She was so pretty. No, he would not leave her and come back to Nonakhal. Labanga could not control herself. She could not stop her tears. Jatayu did not know what to do. Labanga’s tear-stained face brought tears to his eyes. He said: “Don’t cry, daughter. I cannot bear to see you crumble down like this.” “How will I live father? What will I live for? Jatayu dropped his eyes. Labanga’s lost look, her pale and wan face and above all the shadow of defeat that surrounded her, reminded Jatayu for the hundredth time, how helpless he was. He looked around with bloodshot eyes. His limbs trembled in anger, humiliation and pain. Jatayu never imaged that he would be insulted to such an extent at his son-in-law’s house. He understood why Labanga had come back. No one could live with such wanton cruelty. He longed to teach Kalachand a lesson, but the longing only reminded him of his helplessness and poverty; of Kalachand’s cool and disdainful behaviour. Jatayu was rudely pushed out by his son-in-law: “Nonai is my son. I have brought him home. Who are you to interfere? You have given birth to a dirty woman, a whore. Go serve her for the rest of your life. If you come here the second time, I will break your bones. My name is Kalachand. Remember, I maintain cordial relation with the police. They will stand by me. Always.” Jatayu did not know where they hid his grandson. He felt tired, not so much from walking as from the insulting behaviour. He returned, tired and exhausted. His old limbs ached, his head reeled. He knew he would not be able to endure the tension and the pain. Yet he had gone, for his daughter’s sake. Labanga came and sat beside him. She said: “Father, I don’t believe my son said all this.” She burst into tears again. “I will not be able to live without him. My husband deserted me, I endured it. But if my son abandons me where will I go? O Father, tell me where will I go?”

Noonbari  39 It was too much for Jatayu to bear. Just to soothe his aggrieved soul, he went out for a stroll. Labanga sat in the courtyard, lonely and cursing herself for having gone to work, leaving Nonai alone. When she returned Nonai was nowhere to be seen. She never thought that Kalachand would come on the sly and take away Nonai. She came to know about it from old Narahari who had seen Kalachand and Nonai. He said he never realized then that Kalachand was a thief and a coward. Since then the light in her eyes had waned. She refused food and water. She forgot that her father was helpless. Who would cook for him if she did not? Abala came in the morning. She tried to console her, to make her understand that life is under no obligation to give all that she wanted. It was time she accepted her lot. There was nothing else to do. She should not cry and pine away. The father and son were together. They belonged to each other. Labanga refused to understand. She asked if she would not bring him up with care and love. Wiping her tears, she said to her friend. “How can you be so hard-hearted? I cannot endure the separation any more. I live by him. Did I not nurse him in my womb for ten months and ten days, did he not grow up within me.” Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, rolled down her cheeks and broke out in torrents. There was something heart-rending about her cry. Her anguish seemed to be timeless, to be a thing of all ages. Abala sat looking at her in. She said, “Friend, do not cry. Your son is back with his father; like the salt he has returned to the salty mud. If the salt mixes with the waters of the canal can you get back your salt?” During meals, Jatayu tried to console her. He was sure that Nonai would come back. Nothing, not even the good food will be able to keep him there. The bond between the mother and son is invisible. His words did not reassure Labanga. She looked around vacantly and sighed. Jatayu spoke up again, in a different tone. “After all, your son is safe with his father. Like you. I do not think your mother frets and worries.” Labanga remained motionless. She was pale and her face that used to be perfectly confident was lined with conflict and despair. Noonbari did not give even a single drop of water. The fault, however, was Labanga’s. Every time she filled in mud and poured water, it flowed down and slime and gluey mud filled the pitcher. Salt could not be made from it. Poddarbabu had sent his servant a number of times. His truck would move out with the salt. Labanga should meet him. She was not in a mood to meet him but there was no other way out. Salt was ready. If she did not give it then it would be a double loss for her. Labanga’s will to live urged her to hold the reins again. It made her struggle against all odds. She took up her incomplete work as a sort of cure for her soul – bruised and crushed by Kalachand, she walked towards her Noonbari. But every time she picked up the sack, she remembered Nonai and her eyes filled with tears. Words failed her and she looked at the sacks, full of salt.

40  Anil Gharai A sense of emptiness overwhelmed her. Then under the crimson glory of the sky and the blowing clouds at sunset, she saw her Noonbari in a new light. It was a living fabric of truth that held out a hope to her. And she took a vow. She would save herself from doom and destruction. And then in an inspired mood she decided to go there. It was quite late, when Labanga finally finished her calculations. Nearly twenty-five people were present at Poddarbabu’s house and she was the last. Poddarbabu was a rich man. The salt trade fetched him wealth. He had two double-storied buildings, a television, and acres of land well-plastered. In the month of Baishakh, the thickness of the saltwater increased. Poddarbabu had only to bring buckets full of water and empty it on the cemented floor. The heat and fire of the month would soon dry up the water, and the salt remained. But there was a vast difference in the taste. Poddarbabu’s cashier cleared her dues. He did not give dirty soiled notes, but all coins. It produced a musical sound as she walked. There was such a magical power in the sound that all traces of sorrow and uncertainty vanished. Labanga suddenly felt very light. She looked up to see the sky, studded with stars and obstructed from view by patchy shades of the thick foliage of tress overhead. The glow worms danced in the wayside bushes. She could hear the rush and roar of the water. She remembered the whirlpools as she stood in the partial darkness. Netai Santra had stopped her at that very spot, trying to entangle her in his trap. God saved her that day. The whole area was filled with a fleshy rotten smell. She held the corner of her sari to her nose and tried to cross the spot. But she stopped dead in the track. There were four fierce looking dogs, tearing the body of a dead calf. What harassment! She could not take the roundabout way, from the side of the sandbank. It was not safe. Labanga picked up a dry twig and threw it at the dogs. The next moment she ran for her life but the sari twined itself around her leg and she nearly fell down. The dogs came forward snarling. Labanga felt it was Kalachand who was running after her with his gross animalism to smother the light of her life. She mustered up all her courage. She would not run away, not any more. She brandished the corner fold of her sari to stop the vicious, wild Kalachand once and forever. The dogs stepped back by this unexpected attack, but pounced upon her again. Labanga twisted and turned in pain. But before she tumbled down, she picked up a brick. The pain and blood could not subdue her. She lay in a pool of blood, yet determined to finish the animal with a blow. Chapter 11 Labanga returned with difficulty. Then she cauterized herself. It was necessary, because a slight burn would wash away the poison. Jatayu brought a sorcerer. He drew lines with a chalk, placed stones and pebbles on it and then declared there is nothing to fear.

Noonbari  41 Kanthiram refused to accept the verdict. He forced Labanga to go with him to the hospital. They would consult the doctors and do as they advised. He said firmly that he did not believe the occult methods and incantations of enchantment. Labanga had to agree. Even Jatayu felt that she should go. He said: “Go, daughter. I will guard your Noonbari. It is better to be careful.” Labanga who had been lamenting her lot, could not resist any more and wept bitterly. Kanthiram tried to dispel her fears. In the deepening twilight near the struggling fence, they stood. His hands closed over hers, very close and his eyes watched her. She felt happy and proud, her spirit leapt to life. Labanga could not sleep that night with the pain and fever. She was half aware of his passion. She felt that Kanthiram was so much like the diver bird, cormorant that dived into the rushing water of Nonakhal. Kanthiram was diving into the depths of her being. What was he trying to salvage? She trembled and glowed inwardly; yet, she was restless. She was aware of a strange influence entering her life. A part of her is flowing towards Kanthiram. She understood that all her love and affection, all her hope for the future would henceforth revolve around him. Nonai had left. And everything that was hers, she put in a talisman that lay on Kanthiram’s broad chest. She could not bear to live away from him. Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her. But strangely enough the young man, handsome with a slender figure, a reservoir of immense energy and dishevelled hair reminded her of her husband. In a moment, the scene changed. Kalachand’s immensity of passion, almost like a flame of pain shook her violently. She remembered how, after her first physical contact with him, her whole body quivered with sensations, how in the stillness of the night, they met in a long whole kiss that released flood of passion. Their bodies sealed and annealed. Labanga went to the hospital for seven days, to take injection. Just as the water-birds flew to the sandbank to the canal and the strait, a hushed, furtive current pulled her to the shade of the long line of palm trees. From there, she and Kanthiram took the short cut to the hospital. Kanthiram, however, did not appreciate this hide and seek. But this precaution was important. Labanga knew too well, how willingly the scandalmongers of the village could wag their tongues, in such matters. Labanga and Kanthiram enjoyed the trip to the town immensely. Labanga sat on the carrier, rapt, glowing, blinded with, a new light. Kanthiram cycled carefully, ever alert. They had so much to say to each other. Kanthiram sped on. There were drops of perspiration on his forehead. The wind raised a cloud of dust. Labanga’s bangles and sari were marked with it. It was a typical summer day. Rough and dry. The fields were dotted brown by the date trees that were clothed in red. Here and there were patches of sesame trees, planted in straight contiguous rows, the rough leaves basking in the amorous kiss of the morning sun. They passed the scattered tufts of short grass, the thatched houses, the harvest, heaped and piled in the courtyard,

42  Anil Gharai so well swabbed that its smooth brightness shone like a sheet of polished metal. The water of the deep tube wells flowed on, leaving patches of the earth moist. A soothing smell from the dry earth reached Labanga. It revived hope and happiness. In a soft caressing voice, Kanthiram said: “Anything wrong Labanga?” No one, but the overarching blue dome, the nearly dry Nonakhal, the tuft of grass knew, what was wrong with her. Labanga was dying. She could no longer endure the recurrence of love and conflict, the alternating rhythm of life. She sought, yes, she sought a shelter. She stared enviously at the poor houses at a distance, the women working freely in the courtyard, giving suck to their babies. It made her unhappy and an agonized cry came from the very depth of her soul. “Stop! Please stop! I need some water, please.” Kanthiram stopped. Labanga got down and looked around for water. The beauty of the summer morn overcame her. She saw the line of bullock carts, the dust rising from the hot road way, marked the dancing of leaves in the breeze and she lapsed into silence. Kanthiram shook her pointing to the clear water of the pond. Labanga went down the cobbled steps. The white waterlilies massed like snow at the corner of the stream, the small ripples shining in the sun filled her with pleasure. The cool water quenched her thirst. They set out again. The hospital was still far. She thought of her Noonbari and felt restless. She wanted to go back as soon as possible. It was her Noonbari that saved her from crushing down into nothingness, from being scattered into fragments. Already the atmosphere was heavy. Kanthiram went by the zig-zig path that lay between the fields and meadows. The day was clear and cloudless. Labanga saw the pure white folds of the bright blue sky, but even such beauty could not soothe her troubled spirit. Her continued mental distress was shattering her. The manly and virile smell from Kanthiram’s body was intoxicating. His physical charms attracted her, as the feel of his body excited her. What would she do? Allow herself to be carried far, by the high tide of passion. Her heart and body burnt and she wanted to die. Even, at her father-in-law’s house she had not known such pain. Labanga lay on a wooden bench. She bit her lip in pain, as the nurse pushed the sharp needle. Kanthiram waited outside. Earth’s hot breath seemed to brush against his skin. He felt tired. The nurse came out and told Kanthiram to go inside. He did. His eyes fell on Labanga lying still and moaning in pain. They had lunch, wandered around for some time and then decided it was time to return. They passed over the fields and forests so lovely with their sights and sounds. Silence reigned everywhere. There in the midst of nature, Kanthiram suddenly turned around. The love, which lay buried in him, overpowered him. The hustle and bustle of the world did not matter. It was as

Noonbari  43 if, they wished to forget all rules, all codes of life. Labanga let go her hold on herself. He wanted to mingle with her, losing himself to find her, to find himself in her. Everything past was forgotten and a new life was discovered. Labanga lay there still. Kanthiram bent down to lift her up but she pulled him closer. He was confused. He saw the vermillion spot on her forehead smudged, the torn silver chain gathered on her breast. As Labanga turned and tried to get up, the chain fell down on the grass. She stared at it and relapsed into a sort of sombre exclusion. Her restive soul, sought in vain, a place, a niche in some part of her sensuous body, to keep her silver chain. Chapter 12 Labanga was crestfallen. She did not know what to do. She could feel the presence of a life. As she glanced towards the quay, she saw a naked child playing. If it only slipped and fell, it would be washed away. Labanga closed her eyes in fear and pain. She passed her hand over her stomach. She would destroy it, no matter how difficult and painful it might be. For the past few days, Labanga could feel the presence of another life within her. She became certain of it, the day when the sour tasting pickle made her vomit, her father was not there, for his matured eyes would have missed nothing. In an instant he would have known the matter, though for the last three months she had been hiding it within herself. The other day her head reeled. Abala, seeing her pale wan face was surprised. She had said jokingly: “Why Labanga? What is the matter?” Labanga had not shared her secrets with Abala, she could not. She remained silent and mysterious at the hour of the dusk. But for how long? Labanga had even gone to Kanthiram’s house. His mother was not pleased to see her, but she enquired of his father and son. Labanga came to know that Kanthiram had gone to the Bada areas. He would return after a month. What would Labanga do? She could not speak out her grief. People would spit at her and shun her company. She could not commit suicide; she was too scared. And she could not leave the beautiful world. Even her father would turn his face away if he came to know about her condition. All doors were closed. She was helpless. She could not, like a bird swoop for joy. Labanga had nobody to blame except herself. She should have been a bit more reserved. She could not control her physical urge and passion for Kanthiram. It was humanly impossible to continue to drag on the cordial friendly relation with him, in which the body had no share. She could not do what Abala did. After all, it was not its fault. Rather it was the evidence of their profound and intense sentiments, so why would she think differently? Poddarbabu, however, resented the delay in Labanga’s work. He needed salt. If only he could meet the supply and demand, then before long the business would flourish. His messengers reminded Labanga that the season for salt was at its end.

44  Anil Gharai Labanga, in spite of her mental turmoil, had not allowed weeds and grass to grow in and around her Noonbari. She watched it with alert eyes. Yet an uninterrupted feeling of being torn away was slowly overpowering her. It was sheer agony to go to the sandbank. The leaves that fell on the water and sank into the water, the wind that blew over the brown coloured lands and the birds that flew over the water left her lost in thought. Labanga shook off her fear and doubt. Kanthiram was her strength. All her life was directed by her awareness of him, her wakefulness to his being. She wanted to meet him, she longed for one touch of warmth, of assurance from him. For her eternal craving was to be loved. Kanthiram had come to meet her before he left. Sitting in the courtyard flute in hand, he said: “Labanga, you are dearer to me than you feel. Even when I am not here, you will find me. Don’t feel sad to go to the sandbank. You will hear the music of flute in the breeze, the rustle of the leaves will tell you I am well.” Kanthiram’s words brought tears to her eyes. She came out with him, lantern in hand. Near the throng of the neem trees, Kanthiram held her in a long and tight embrace. Night has its own beauty, its own fragrance. Everything was submerged in the half light, and everything seemed to echo. The dusty road with its scent laden air made Labanga remain in his arms with a sense of luxury. Labanga said after sometime in a low voice: “I think we should be more careful. What if we fall into my trouble?” “Troubles are a part of life Labanga. We will tackle it.” Kanthiram’s voice shook with emotion. Labanga remained still, overwhelmed by its intensity. It roused warmth in her and filled her with a strange feeling. The night air, moaning in the water of Nonakhal made her realize once again what separation meant. And when the wind fell silent she was overpowered by the sudden silence. Labanga came back and looked at her reflection in the mirror, critically. The freshness of her cheeks was back, she looked like a fresh tree which had suddenly come back to life. In the light of vigour and vitality, she seemed to be the queen of Nonakhal. The healthy spot that glowed on her cheeks made her forget her Noonbari, her poverty and even her troubles. The physical urge and passion that had been beating up like fire in her veins cooled down. She did not consider herself an untouchable, she was happy in showers of sunshine. Labanga neither respected nor loved the people of Nonakhal. Her life revolved around Kanthiram. He had given her a new and deeper freedom, something she had always yearned for. She was not ashamed. She did not deny the ebb and tide of sensual warmth that gave her pleasure and gratification. She was Nonai’s mother, Kalachand’s wife. But she had no need of the social status that they had given her. Such prestige and social values are useless. She did not accept the norms set down by a society and its custodians

Noonbari  45 of law that failed to give protection to young girls. She wanted to teach them that even girls could speak up against the male who asserted their superiority by exercising their physical strength. Netai Santra was mad with desire for her, but all his money and power failed. Labanga hated him. The young village Chief was no different. He frightened her with his terrible laugh which was unnatural and ghostly like a laugh in hell. Labanga shrank from any physical contact with either of them. There arose a feeling of insecurity and fear in her heart. They should be thrown out as waste, before they did any harm. They were mistaken if they thought she was a despairing soul that allowed itself to be drifted in any direction, severed from its living will. Kanthiram was as precious as the silt and mud that contained salt; the mud for which the villagers waited eagerly, for it was the means of their sustenance. He was not like the slime that needed to be scraped off. Kanthiram was a part of the landscape, rooted in the soil. His very prosaicness was her anchor. It was to him that she had offered herself, to melt and blend. Labanga did not sink in her own esteem. She was not loaded with self-guilt. Her love that gave her moments of happiness gave her confidence too. This society had given her a social prestige. In return, it wanted to curb her wishes and desires. The existing system that could not give her a square meal had no right to impose restrictions. To Labanga, the values of life and environment changed drastically. She was determined to prove that even a cast away like her had an existence of its own. That existence not only felt the flame running in her veins, but sought gratification too. Labanga could not quite disapprove of what Abala did. Perhaps that was only natural. Netai Santra would never acknowledge her socially. No one in the village would advise him to marry Abala. The wretched girl would spend her youth in shame of unlicenced sensual pleasures. Much against her will she would undergo abortions. Then again she would blossom into beauty only to throw away respectability to give the master physical gratification. The eternal cycle of time would witness the drama of pleasure and pain. And of sin. Labanga did not wish to be another Abala, though the situation and circumstances were very much the same outwardly. She always looked down upon those who committed suicide. Though her mind was drugged with weariness and anxiety, she considered herself sincere and faithful in her love for Kanthiram. If she was pure at heart, scandal could do no harm. Nonakhal had taught her this lesson. The mud and clay of Nonakhal was different from that of the pond. The seed of creativity was hidden in the soil of Nonakhal. In the stagnant water of the pond there was no sign of creativity or of life. It was rotten and foul smelling. Labanga stood by the quay. The beauty of the sloping sandbank, the glorious colours of the sunset filled the area with peace and tranquillity. The peace was like balm to her anxious heart. At this time there was a rush at the sandbank side. Everybody was afraid of the dark. Labanga looked at

46  Anil Gharai the zigzag path that went through the woods, the gloomy vastness and felt distressed. But she shook off this feeling quite soon. Labanga knew very soon Kanthiram would come, down the brow of the hill, across the field, he would come whistling. His presence would wipe away the chilling darkness of her heart. Surely he would come. Monsoon was not too far off. Kanthiram came in the deepening twilight. He looked tired. Labanga was awakened by the knock at the door. She saw him, her dear one, and the perfection of masculine beauty. He had gone to earn a livelihood while she remained, guarding and watching everything with alert eyes. His face was lined with strain of journey, yet it sparkled in the light of the moon. His eyes shone in the soft silver light. Forgetting everything, Labanga ran towards him. And then they were in each other’s arms, trying to fill up the void that was created due to the long separation. Slowly, Kanthiram freed himself to look at Labanga. He felt he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. On the face of earth there was nothing equal to her eyes, sparking with love, the lotus like shoulders, the shapely chin and throat. His blood beat up waves of desire in his veins, and he pulled her close. And then gradually as he began to flow towards her, to mingle with her, Labanga summoned up all her courage to speak to Kanthiram. His grasp relaxed. Kanthiram sat there bewildered. After sometime he said: “What are we to do?” Labanga lay still. They were both crushed and silent; they dare not see each other, recognize each other. Then Kanthiram recovered. With a great passionate effort, he took her in his arms, and covered her with kisses. Labanga raised her face to his and for a moment she was dizzy. Kanthiram said: “Don’t worry. We will go to town tomorrow. I know a doctor. I will give him money and he will arrange everything. Is this a problem today?” “No ___o___o,” Labanga shrieked in pain and fear. And pushed him away. Kanthiram was amazed. “I am not Abala, Kanthida, and if you think so, you are mistaken!” Then she wrapped her sari around her body and stood up straight. It was as if she wanted to flee from this place, so polluted by his breath. The, she spoke again: “Don’t look at me with your sinful eyes. So long there was no sin, no lust in your touch. You do not belong to me, you are like the mud that needs to be scrapped off and thrown out from the Noonbari.” Kanthiram tried to reach her but Labanga stepped back in hatred: “No, don’t touch me. There is sin in your touch.” Then she ran towards the sandbank. Kanthiram called out to her again and again. When finally, he met her, she was crying as if her heart would break. Kanthiram placed his hand on her head and said softly: “Don’t be childish. In troubled times, it is best to remain cool and calm.”

Noonbari  47 “What danger, what trouble?” hissed Labanga. “The newcomer is not a thorn, not poison. It is our own our flesh and blood. You can hurt me, but not our child.” Kanthiram said, “Alright, let him come. But not here, elsewhere. I will not allow our reputation to be soiled.” “What do you want to do?” “We will leave Nonakhal.” “But where? Everywhere it is the same.” “We will go to Kolkata. I have a friend there. Then I will begin working in a theatrical party.” “My Noonbari! My Nonai!” Kanthiram had no words for the question that came from the very depth of Labanga’s being. Chapter 13 High tide flooded Nonakhal on the night of full moon. Labanga and Kanthiram decided to leave the village that night. They would take the bus from the local market to the district town. They would board the train from there. Then a life of freedom, of happiness and the world would be changed for both of them. Labanga prepared herself for it. She poured all her love and care on her old crippled father. She wondered who would look after him and her Noonbari. Noonbari carried with it a rich aura of emotions and associations. Labanga could not check her tears every time, she went near it. Never before she had thought of her comfort and happiness, never taken such a selfish decision. When Kanthiram suggested elopement, it saddened her for it meant separation again – separation from her father, from Nonakhal from every loved spot that her infancy knew. But her sorrow was short-lived as on the next moment the fountain of happiness flowed in the innermost recess of her mind – now falling, now rising, but persistent forever. Apart from her Noonbari, Labanga had no other support. She tried to fill up the void in her life by agreeing to Kanthiram’s suggestion. Kalachand lived a different life. His happiness was complete for Nonai was with him. If he could live happily, then why couldn’t she begin anew? If the guardians of morality did not attach any blame to a man who enjoyed intimacy with two, three, even more women, then why should chastity be the yardstick to judge a woman? Indeed, a woman’s chastity is man’s own invention. Labanga felt she had done nothing wrong. She had only fulfilled a natural law. She would not bow and bend low before the verdict of the society and mar her motherhood, her power of enjoying and spreading love. The scale of justice must be equal; otherwise, the day is not far off when the poison of differentiation would lose its life saving quality, and water would be defiled. Nonai’s absence was partly responsible for Labanga’s willing submission to

48  Anil Gharai Kanthiram’s decision. Had he been with her, and then perhaps she could not have welcomed the decision so eagerly. She felt that her son had paved the way for her new beginning. Labanga went to the burning ghat before leaving. It was there that the mortal remains of her mother turned to ashes. Then it mingled with the flowing water of Nonakhal to flow on to the sea. This was an example of her mother’s purity of spirit and intention. Labanga also desired such a happy and decent end but that was not to be. It was not that Labanga had no complaints against life or a feeling of resentment at injustice. Tears rolled down her cheeks and lingered in her eyes as she dipped her hand in the water. She splashed the cold water on her face and then went back to their poor hut. Jatayu was seriously ill. The village doctor did not assure Labanga of his recovery. Rather he told her that his end was near, adding that he would try his best. Jatayu lay on his bed, drifting towards death. Labanga nursed him untiringly. He refused food, and spoke only of his fear and her future. It weakened her and shook the very foundation of her faith. She could not think beyond that fact that she would have to cling to a proper uniform. Labanga went to meet Abala in the evening. Her dear friend was not at home, she sat chatting with her mother who was pleased to see Labanga after a long time. With a smile she said, “You look better these days. There is a healthy glow on your face.” Labanga, in fear, saw herself on the sly and pulled her sari tightly, forcing a grin. She replied. “There is nothing much to do these days. That is why I have put on weight. I only look after my Noonbari. Father manages the rest of the work.” Sighing deeply, Abala’s mother said: “Noonbari makes on a king, the other a beggar. It suited you. It fetched you money. But why don’t you go to the local market, you will get more profit, double the profit. Poddar is a cheat. He robs the poor of their dues. His money will drain out like salt. If I am alive I will see it, or else you girls will.” Chopping the betel nut, she continued“Noonbari did not suit us. It brought in only curse and endless misfortunes. Abala’s father destroyed it. The salt I make lasts me thought the year.” The new pot had small holes like a sieve. Abala’s mother spread a thick layer of ash on it. Then she poured mud. She feared if she poured water directly then a hole might help the mud to slip down. She could not hide her irritation as she said – “Since morning I have been working. Even then I did not get a bowl full. Abala said she would boil the water. She knows the art of making white salt. It is better than yours. Take a handful before going.” Labanga waited for a time but she did not meet Abala. She returned with a choking throat, her eyes full of tears and her voice sinking. She had hoped to spend some time with her childhood friend before she left forever. May be it was good that they did not meet. If Abala doubted anything, she would not hesitate to check. Back home Labanga could not concentrate on her work. Kanthiram would wait for her on the quay. When her father fell asleep, she

Noonbari  49 would pull the doors and go to Kanthiram. Labanga sat watching the stars appear one by one. It was a beautiful moonlit night. The moon stood silent and serene in the sky as though watching the earth and its inmates. The leaves were shining and the winds seemed to be singing. Labanga sat in rapturous wonderment. She had never before seen such beauty, such glories of life. But she could not enjoy the lovely night though her sorrows were coming to an end. The silver rays made her acutely aware of her thoughts and decision, and that she was nothing herself. Kanthiram called out to her, the moment she reached. Labanga went forward cautiously. She did not look up meet his eyes. Instead, in a voice barely audible she said, “I am feeling sad. And guilty. It is a painful realization that I have to rip myself away from Nonakhal, from my father. While coming I saw mosquitoes biting him. But he cannot feel it.” “I understand, Labanga. I bought medicine to last my mother ten days. And then, I don’t know. Mother wanted only one thing, that I perform her last rites. But her wish will not be fulfilled.” Kanthiram’s voice shook with emotion. Observing him closely, Labanga felt she was too selfish, too degrading. Then Kanthiram said – “Come on, Why are we waiting? Let’s push off the boat. How long will it be, before the high tide sets in?” Kanthiram looked up at the moon. The sound of roaring water, like that of a thousand beating drums thrust itself in his ears. During high tide the turbulent swelling water rose and fell on the sweeping shore of sand. The two walked in silence towards the kheya. Night had its own beauty and fragrance. It kept them spellbound. The wind was a cascade of darkness and white vista of the sea with its waves swelling and surging forever in the distance. Kanthiram had his axe as it was night. No one knew what danger waited for them under the cover of the night. The axe sparkled in the light of the moon. The tranquillity of the night was shattered by the sound of a gigantic wave breaking on the shore from where came the sound of landslide. Labanga trembled in fear. Her eyes fell on Kanthiram who held the axe firmly. The glint made Labanga turn her eyes away. Kanthiram called her in a low voice: “Labanga come near.” She swallowed hard and went near. She had no strength felt to question him. Kanthiram said: “From this moment we will share everything. We will walk through this world together, share our dreams and hopes for we need each other. See the two ropes you will cut one and I will cut the other.” Labanga stood with the axe, then as she bent forward her sari dropped from her shoulder revealing the fullness and luxuriance of growth. The waves rose and fell with a tremulous cadence. Kanthiram’s eyes spotted Labanga’s naval. A smile lit-up his face, somewhere round the naval, taking its nourishment lay his child, Labanga’s child.

50  Anil Gharai Kanthiram looked at her printed sari and pink blouse, the white bead necklace, the spot on her forehead, her black hair. Her large expressive eyes enhanced her beauty. She seemed to him a whole concept of sex condensed into one typical form. He stared at her in wonder. He forgot everything, from far like some wild music the waves fell on the shore. Unable to control himself, he embraced Labanga. Then followed an exquisite idyll, their impulsive, mutual avowal of love. Labanga remained still and motionless, in a delicate swoon. It was a wonderful experience and each felt peace in the other. Kanthiram buried his face in Labanga’s body to feel once again the sources of passion and life within her. Thrilled with the touch of her sweat, he shook Labanga: “My dear, there is salt in your body. Noonbari floods you, where will you go with it?” Labanga turned around to face Kanthiram. She said with a smile: “It is the same with you.” Kanthiram had no words, no reply. “Can you distance yourself from Nonakhal?” asked Labanga with a look of meditative sadness. “Aren’t the fields and fallows and the air inextricably interwoven with you, your life?” Kanthiram knew how right Labanga was. Nonakhal was an inseparable part of his existence; it had a strong hold on his affection. And the thought of estrangement from it, made him mad with grief. He hated himself and his decision. Nonakhal was his space. On promising to protect Labanga by every means in his power, he had lost all sense of life and death, time and place. Salt tried to flee always, but the mud and silt never desired it. Then why this degradation in him? Why didn’t he realize that in trying to save themselves they would be leading the life of fugitives, marked only by ebb and no flow? Whatever such a life might offer, it would not give peace and honour. Kanthiram did not wish to live such a life of humiliation and guilt. He questioned Labanga who burst into tears: “I feel uprooted. Take me back, take me closer to feel the comforting happiness of mother earth.” “Then jump.” Labanga looked around helplessly. She said: “The bank is flooded. We will die, the tide will carry us for.” Kanthiram held her hand firmly. He looked deep into her eyes and said: “We will live; we have to live. Remember you are not alone.” Labanga remembered the child on her womb and jumped headlong. Kanthiram followed. The sand bank was flooded. Labanga lay flat as Kanthiram nestled beside her. He said: “See if he is alive, I’m sure, he will take care of our Noonbari, he drank such quantities of water.”

Noonbari  51 The thought of a secured future brought a sparkle in Labanga’s eyes. Taking Kanthiram’s hand she said: “See, if you can feel the presence of Noonbari.” Kanthiram did so. With a slight pressure of his hand on the Noonbari of the next generation he bent lower, till her breath warmed his face. His cheek was in contact with hers and on her eyelashes lingered tears that mingled with his. He lay there still, motionless, savouring every moment. He felt the water of the universe had accumulated to form this visionary essence of woman; this sublime beauty that would orchestrate the music of many strands into a symphony of pure bliss.

---xxxx--Glossary Balihash — A small fresh water duck, dark green in colour/the teal Chaitra — The last month in Bengali Calendar Cheel — Kite Chikni — Edible spinach Dharam — Chastity Gajan — Hindu festival Ghoga — The locust Ghugu — Spotted dove Gunj — Market town Habati — Utterly wretched Jatayu — A demigod in the form of an eagle, in the epic Ramayana Jhama — eet – Over-burnt brick Kak — House crow Katari — Chopper Lakshmi — Goddess of wealth and fortune Leel — Moss Machranga — The kingfisher Maduli — Amulet Noonbari — Salt dunes Phalgun — February–March Phitkari — Alum Soi — Friend Supuri — Betel nut Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as Noonbari. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2016 (1989).

II

Stories

2 The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo) Anil Gharai

Abstract To the rural population, the election is a long holiday. The young village boys along with the party candidate use all tricks and tactics to win and take part in the high pitch campaign. It is also the time for the candidate to look into the grievances of the villagers albeit once in five years. The protagonist of the story is an old man of seventyfive, bent double with age, who eagerly waits for the election as he knows his needs will be fulfilled. He is the prize voter of the ruling party and is ready to cast his vote in favour of the party that holds profitable negotiations with him. With a bag full of cash, they earn the promise of his vote and send a sack full of rice that helps the old man in the midst of the grinding poverty to enjoy a square meal. Keywords Vote; Tricks; Tactics; Cash; Promise

The remorseless sun spread its rays on the sand bed. Old Chaitanya with his bare feet trudged along. He felt as if he had been stabbed by a million sun spears. His throat was dry; his tongue felt heavy, even his bones seemed to smoulder in the heat. It is summer and at times the gentle wind, whipped into a frenzy that made the sand creep into his nose, eyes, mouth everywhere. Old Chaitanya knew all of it; yet, he was here. The sea does not call him; he comes to the sea. He cannot resist himself. He is greedy for fish. He cannot eat even a handful of rice without fish. His wife had often said: “It seems your habits resemble a style befitting kings but your pocket is bereft of any wealth. Control yourself.” He is in the last quarter of his life, what is he to control now. Everyone becomes greedy in their old age and greed is like a leech. No matter how you try to kill it you cannot. Only if you sprinkle salt on the leech, it will die. Old Chaitanya’s greed does resemble the leech but nothing happens even if salt water is poured on it. Being extremely tired, he sat down after walking a few steps. He felt that his body was a machine and the joints were the screws that screeched in protest as if something had gone DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-5

56  Anil Gharai wrong. Old Chaitanya turned cold in fear. His wife died at an early age. He felt that Yama had taken her way too early. She had gone to the pond to fetch kiranjali. She slipped there and fell. Old Chaitanya on hearing her piercing cry ran with the others following him but everything was over by then. The sight of the blood covered face and throat frenzied Chaitanya so much so that he started speaking all gibberish. Seeing his behaviour, every one wondered whether the shock made him mad. What a trouble! The old lady was gone. Will the old man go too? But they did not understand it is not easy to die. He was still alive, but with pain all over his body. His wife used to massage shark oil as he told her stories about life at sea. He told her about his young days when he used to catch fish with a group. Oh! How large fishes they were! They looked as beautiful as the ladies of the gentry. And thus life went on. Alas! All this was past. Today, Phatik and Tarapada were pulling in the big net. But none of them gave him just two of the smallest fish, of any variety. Phatik was very outspoken. Hiding the bhetki fish in his bag, he says, “From where will I get fish every day? Take these two crabs. Prepare it as you want to, you will like the taste.” “I do not care about the taste.” Offering crabs was a way of only ridiculing him. Old Chaitanya could not appreciate Phatik’s words. Yet, he could say nothing. Whatever he got free of cost was indeed priceless. If he neglected it, it was his loss. He was a mature man and he knew that it was not wise to get angry at such remarks. So he implored, “Phatik! Can I bite and chew crabs with these toothless gums? If you give me just two, of the very small fish, it will be good. It is difficult for me to eat just plain rice, my dear. As long as my old lady was with me, she used to throw the Kurajali and catch fish and prawns. The old woman left me alone to suffer. Not even a small peck of shutki could be traced at home that I can roast. Those were the days, my son, when I had kilos of shutki at home. Not only did I eat it but also I distributed it. Now others eat and I stare like a fool.” Each and every one out there has left a long time back after gathering their fishing nets. Now only the mangy dogs are moving around. Sometimes they look up at the sky and howl, and that is inauspicious. People cannot understand it, but Old Chaitanya can. Then, his sorrow increases manifold. To fill even one old stomach has become so difficult. His eighty-year-old life was filled with diverse experiences. He was a fisherman; he became a flutist. Then, he lived happily and comfortably. He had made silver ornaments for his wife, from Chandu’s shop. His earnings in one puja covered the expenses of one full month. He had bought the flute from a jatra crazy stranger. A deep breath then a whiff into it, and the flute would bring forth melodious notes. Tarar titir – tire – tire – titir – tire. Naran thumped the dhol to the rhythm of tiri – tiri – “Oh! It was heavenly. In the name of Lord Shiva, people would drop rice, fruits, this and that, even money, into the wicker basket. This would be divided equally. Now if he blew into the flute, the powdered dried

The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)  57 tobacco leaf would remain stuck in the small openings and stop the flow of the musical notes. And even if he could, after a long and tiring effort, the today’s youth hardly listened. They wanted modern music; which Old Chaitanya did not know. Melody was lost with age. If not, why such sorrow, such pain? At the age when one ought to relax, why he, bent double with age, moved from here to there in search of food? He sighed and a bitter smell spread in his mouth; he felt uneasy. In the morning, he had taken leftover rice soaked in water with boiled potato. Perhaps the acidity was due to that. He panted and stopped as he neared the cluster of tamarisk trees. In this long life of his, how many days of happiness has he received? He couldn’t settle accounts. Those with whom he spent his time were all shrewd hypocrites. Hmm, his wife was much wiser, though she remained within the four walls. She used to say often, “You cannot do anything now, you are achol poisa.” Old Chaitanya used to laugh. Scratching his bristly beard, he would say, “Just wait for the election-days to come, then you will see the fun. This achol poisa will be sold at the price of gold. I will sit here, and Babus will come and butter me up.” – “All big boastful talk, I have seen everything,” said his wife, her lips twisted in disgust. It was too much to bear. His heart pounded heavily. Standing straight on the taktaposh, he brought out a folded paper from some corner of the thatched roof. He held it out – “See, just see my photo in the newspaper, see my name, here my age is also mentioned by the paper people.” “No lies, clear like the daylight. The old man… casting his vote in the primary school… a slip of paper in hand. Can such dreams be true, in this small life?” “I did not say a lie, what is the gain in saying lies to my wife. So, that time I had earned really well,” Dulalbabu said. “O grandfather you are the oldest voter. You are voting ever since our country became independent. You do not even remember, I think, how many times your finger was marked with ink. That is why, I came to you. This time also, favour our party with your vote. You are seventy-five years old but we have changed it to hundred while making the voters’ list. You are the oldest voter of this region. You are as old as that banyan tree spreading its branches out to give shade.” “If people ask you, about your age, say that you are hundred-year-old. You will see what cordial treatment you will get. The photographer will come from Kolkata, he will click your pictures and they will be published in the newspapers. And for this, along with you, our village will also become famous. Then who can catch up to us?” “Then I told babu, but what is all this to me, what will I get from it. The pictures in the newspapers will not fill my stomach. I am a poor man. In the name of Goddess Sitala, I swear, I will vote for you. But babu, give me a mound of rice, let me eat and survive. The babus gave it and you know everything. What more can I tell you. We could

58  Anil Gharai live through the flood without fear, because of the rice.” Yes, it was true. Old Chaitanya was now seventy-five but in the voters’ list, he was a frail and feeble old man aged hundred and five. His photo found place in the party’s leaflet. He was the auspicious voter who brought in good fortune. As the first voter, the party he voted for won the election, such was the rumour. He had never imagined that the Old Chaitanya who was ill – omened and childless will be considered auspicious in the vote – tide. People living at the side of the dyke would always say, if one saw his face in the morning and went out fishing, he would spoil the whole day. Even the small stupid salt water fish, would avoid the net carefully. He was nothing but ill omened. Such was the belief not only of his village people but of the neighbouring villages too. So even though he used to wake up in the early dawn, he did not step out of his house. He remained at home with his face buried between his knees. One would feel sad to see him then. Yet, the same thin old man with his toothless gum, bent with age, became so auspicious in the vote-season. All the different parties and their members tried to pull him to their respective parties. Old Chaitanya found himself in a helpless situation. He was a Hindu but of a low caste. Yet, the cadets of the political party made him touch the sacred book, the Gita, and swear. They even threatened him, “Do not betray us grandfather, we will give you everything you want, but don’t you dare to betray us. For seven days before the vote, we will give you food, breakfast, everything free. We will even shower you with the country liquor. You will only have to come in our rickshaw to the booth. We will stick our party’s label on your vest.” Old Chaitanya laughed a cruel relentless laugh. His laughter was like the poison hidden in the sea foam. He would not get this opportunity to earn, throughout the year. Pujas, once in a year, vote once in five years. If fortune favoured, then Assembly Elections and many such can be held during this period. So the election is like a game of lottery for him. But in lottery, at least one rupee is spent, but for the vote game, not a single penny is spent. Vote, he felt, was so much like the union with a female partner. Even a thousand gratifications will not yield any results. A smile spread across his face, like the sun rays on the shore. This smile was not his usual spontaneous smile, rather it was implanted, when forced it spread from an unseen corner of the lips to the face. Old Chaitanya can breathe freely when he is at the seaside. Having played the flute in his young days, his heart and lungs were damaged largely. He faced breathing issues as well. At such moments, his heart seemed to him like a fish into which air was pumped, and if pressed it would shrink. To him, human life is like a puffed-up fish. In this short mundane existence, he is only showing off. Phatik was too proud, earning a lot of money. He seemed to be walking in the air, looking down on others. Altogether, he had seven big boats, a big fishing net too. Apart from this, he owned a fish depot. During the winter, money came flying to him. Girls from the nearby colony came to select fish and dry them. Old Chaitanya wanted to be a guard at the depot. Phatik laughed and chased him away – the old, useless fellow.

The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)  59 Phatik leered, “You, you will guard my depot? With one foot in the grave why don’t you try something else? I will buy you a kartal, sing and play to its beat and go begging from door to door. You have none. Your son died. Your wife died. Seeing you and knowing you, people will give alms. And then you will not have to pick up fish from the sea beach like these mangy dogs.” It was not a bad suggestion. If Chaitanya could think over it calmly, it would bring him peace. But his mind was never at peace, it was always distracted. So he took the words to heart and was filled with rage. His eyes became red and panting in fury he said, “I am a flutist, who has not heard me playing the flute? Go ask your father and then you will know how he praised me. If I want, I can join the jatra party. So many are desirous of seeing me as their mentor. They are trying to flatter me.” But I will not go I will live in this village and die in this village. I will not go out to beg or to borrow. Those who create music, play music, do they beg or ask for help?” While coming back home, he saw the mangy dog again. His body was covered with sores and flies and he was enjoying a fall meal. Even his tail had no hair, so he could not chase the flies. Seeing the dog’s sufferings, Old Chaitanya was filled with fear, as he thought about himself. He had lovely black curly hair like Lord Krishna. He was strong and sturdy like the saal tree. His lustrous body was not like the loose sand on the sand dunes but like the clayey soil in its dry state – so hard and firm. Today, everything was in ruins. He could not work; he could not endure wear and tear. The dog still ran around with its sores. People looked at him with unseeing eyes. In his sorrow, Old Chaitanya considered himself to be subordinate to others. People of the neighbouring villages knew him well but no one ever visited him. The other day, Sadhan gave him a dead bird, to cook and eat. It was tasty, but he could not relish it due to the lack of spices. That was about two months back. Ramapada’s son has opened a shop near the canal side. While crossing that place, the smell of cooked chicken reached his nostrils. Old Chaitanya immediately got then filled with a terrible longing for just one piece of cooked chicken. But Ramapada’s son was rather impudent. He would chase him away like he would chase a stray dog. As the day advances, the sun seems to become so brazen. The trees standing quietly, shrunken by the heat, start dancing, their waists shaking like the notorious girls by the touch of the sea breeze. Old Chaitanya felt comfortable and wanted to lie down and take rest. But the pangs of hunger forced him to stand up and move. Giving up hopes for fish, he turned homeward. His bent body felt nauseous; he stood for a while and then started walking like a decrepit man. Leaving behind the tamarisk trees, the sand, the sand dunes and the saltwater sea, he trudged on. Subol charged one rupee per passenger to take them from the sea side to the canal side. He bought this van on loan, after his father died. Old Chaitanya stood beside him with his sad deep-set eyes asking for the favour of a ride.

60  Anil Gharai “O grandfather, do you want to go?” Old Chaitanya nodded his head. Subol lighted a bidi. “Then hurry up,” he said, “Once the bus comes, people will rush there. Everybody has become so stingy these days.” Buses in this route come after every half an hour. No matter how big the crowd is, it finds place in the bus. It is like the stomach of the shark, that swallows as many as you give. Subol said, “These bus people will kill us, we will starve. You tell me, can the small fish fight and compete with the big fish, they swallow the small fish, after all.” – “Yes, Subol, you are right. These big fishes are everywhere, these are hard times and the small fishes cannot survive.” The van was moving slowly. Subol wiped his face and said, “Grandfather, mother said you have twenty-year-old shark oil at home. Will you give me a little?” – “What will you do with it son?” Subol looked at him with unobservant eyes, cleared his throat and said slowly, “It’s a long story. Look at me; you know everything about my family. So there is nothing to hide from you. This van fetches me money, the six members of my family survive on this. From last month, I can feel a harsh pain in my knees. The continuous force that is needed to paddle the van and make it move is taking its toll. If I sit on the floor, I cannot stand; I also find it difficult to sit. If you give me a little oil, then I will massage my knees with the old oil. I know, grandfather, medicines will not help.” Afternoons in the canal side mean a listless lethargic old man in a drowsy state. Old Chaitanya stood by the side of the wooden bridge and stared with greedy eyes at the sweet meat shop. So many varieties, what colour and what size!!! His mouth started watering. But he had no money. No one gives him anything on credit. He too does not ask for credit because how will he repay it? That boy in the shop, his name is Nabakumar. He has come home in the summer vacation. He is very generous, and he loves to listen to songs. Whenever they meet he says. “O grandfather sing a song, please.” If he sings, the boy gives him money. Today, Nabakumar was alone in the shop, reading a newspaper. Old Chaitanya went up to him and said, “When did you come? Everything is well, I hope.” Nabakumar folded the paper and said, “Sit grandfather. I do not see you these days.” A sad smile spread on Old Chaitanya’s face. He controlled his cough and licked his lips while looking at the sweets. “I am not keeping well these days, son. I am old. I cannot move around; my head reels; my eyes betray me, at times.” After an exchange of words, Old Chaitanya went nearer to glass almirah so full of sweets, swallowed hard, licked his lips and said,

The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)  61 “Babu, how white these rasogollas are, whatever you say, I have tasted rasogollas of many places, but nothing like that of your shop.” Nabakumar was an intelligent boy. He felt sad to see old Chaitanya’s worn out, dry face. Coming up to him he said, “Grandfather, I feel you have not eaten anything today?” Old Chaitanya’s eyes, full with tears, he tried to laugh and give a reply but his voice choked and he said, “You are right. I have eaten nothing the whole day. I went to the sea side in the hope of getting two small fish, but nothing. These days, no one is willing to give even the small fish. Everything is packed and sent to Calcutta. Yet, only ten years ago there was no such scarcity.” “Forget those days. These days, salt water fish is sold at higher prices than sweet water fish. Such fishes from which people turned their faces are sold at ten rupees.” “Yes, yes,” Old Chaitanya agreed. He came and sat on the bench. – “Do you have a bidi, then give me, let me gather some energy.” “You will smoke in empty stomach?” – Old Chaitanya looked directly into Nabakumar’s eyes and smiled a sad smile. “Times are bad, if you stroke a match, even the wind will catch on fire.” His voice was one of regret, “I feel I will not live long, the time is near.” Nabakumar gave him four rasogollas, “Eat it quickly, father will shout if he sees.” “O what heavenly food on a spotless white plate!” he thanked Maa Sitala and began eating. He ate it quickly and then drank water. He wiped his face and looked at Nabakumar with deep pleasure and satisfaction. – “I feel better. God be with you. They, who help the poor, will be blessed by God.” Then in a broken voice, he started singing. O dear who are you all alone by the river side O dear girl you are alone. Swinging her hips sideways O Banamali – hey – hey – hey Nabakumar clapped and said, “Every time I hear this song, I feel it is new. I feel so happy to hear it after a long time.” Old Chaitanya took a dip in the ocean of memories. Wiping his face, he said in a listless voice, “Your grandmother was very fond of this song. In the moonlit nights, she wanted to hear this song.” “She left leaving me alone. I do not sing this song. If I do, the old lady worries me the whole night. She does not let me have even a wink of sleep.” Nabakumar was surprised.

62  Anil Gharai In every person’s heart, there lies an unfathomable sorrow. Man cannot overcome that in his whole life. With this sorrow, he dies and is reduced to ashes. Old Chaitanya started dosing; his appearance was marked with helpless sorrow and poverty. Yet, this man produced such melodious strains and made some hundreds forget their sorrow. The flute was there but no notes, no strains. The strength to breathe into the flute is lost. – “Grandfather, hope you have your flute?” Startled, Old Chaitanya sat up straight. Shaking off his sleep, he spoke with a turi, “Yes son, I have it. I could not sell it. I was offered a hundred rupees; still I did not give it. The flute is my son. It is with me, my support in old age.” “You do not play it?” “No brother, I cannot. There is congestion in my chest, notes get stuck, it is so painful. My flute does not listen to me anymore, my dear, it does not listen to me,” Old Chaitanya returned home in the evening. He fell asleep as soon as he lay down on the taktaposh. Tinu’s second daughter woke him up. “Where were you the whole day? Get up. Eat the starched rice.” The old man yawned, “I will not eat, I am feeling feverish. My head is aching.” “Let me see, yes you have fever. Let father return. Then I will get you medicines from the hospital.” “No need of medicines.” “How can that be? These days fevers are different. Once it gets you, it does not want to leave.” Tinu’s daughter’s name was Chhutu. Though dark, she had large expressive eyes. She was loving and compassionate. Having lost her mother at an early age, she was like a mother, caring and alert. She tied her hair into a knot and sat facing Old Chaitanya, “Didn’t I tell you time and again not to go to the sea-side. In summer, the salt water is not good for the body.” Chaitanya laughed like a child. Chhutu said, “Grandmother told me to look after you, but how I can? You don’t listen to me. If you carry on like this, I will not come to you anymore.” The old man took Chhutu’s hands in his, “O my crazy mother, if you are annoyed on with your old son, then there is no one to care for him. When you get married will I go to your in-law’s house to tease you? Son-in-law might not like it.” Chhutu blushed. She bit her lips and sat quietly. Old Chaitanya noticed that she was without bangles. “What happened to your bangles?” Chhutu smiled, “It is broken, grandfather. Glass bangles break easily.” Chaitanya muttered, “Let the vote come, I will buy you bangles, in dozens.” Chhutu said, “Keep your head on my lap. Let me massage your forehead.”

The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)  63 Old Chaitanya was sick. Whenever he opened his eyes, he saw only spiders’ net all over his room. He told Chhutu, “One day when that fly is trapped, the spiders will kill it; they are merciless.” Chhutu looked around. “There is a spider’s net but there was no fly.” She said, “There is no fly, your eyes have deceived you. This happens if you are sick for a long time.” Old Chaitanya was not ready to accept defeat. He rubbed his eyes and said, “O ho, it is not a fly, it is a bumble bee. See how black in colour it is! It cannot buzz, the spiders are stopping it. O God how can a bee survive without buzzing?” Chhutu realized old Chaitanya was speaking in a delirium. She ran home and brought her father. Finding the situation critical, her father called a few influential people of the village, along with them came, Kujonbabu. Dressed like a leader in white kurta and pajamas with a shoulder bag, he ordered the others to arrange for a cot to take old Chaitanya to the hospital. Chhutu sat there quietly fanning the old man. She could not look at the people; she is quite matured; there was fear and shame in her eyes. Kujonbabu looked inside and then said, “This old man must be saved. Vote is near, hope you remember.” – “What is the relation with the old man?” “Don’t argue about matters you do not understand. Because of old Chaitanya, we won twice in the election. Grandfather is the auspicious voter. There are one or two, whose touch turns clay into gold.” There were only ten beds in the village hospital. Kujonbabu made use of his political connection and removed a patient to the floor and had the bed allotted to Chaitanya. “Take special care, doctor. He is the pride of our village. He is now hundred and five years old, the oldest voter in Bengal. Yet, see, there is no change in his condition. Old Chaitanya is our ideal. The day there is a change in his condition, on that day, you will know our country is progressing. But today, we do not speak of progress, seeing old Chaitanya’s condition we feel hesitant to utter words of development and progress.” The doctor was surprised. Looking at the ceiling, he said in a dry voice, “Old Chaitanya’s condition is such that nothing can be guaranteed. Yet, I will try heart and soul. You have brought him rather late. He is anaemic. Does he get a square meal every day?” Kujanbabu was visibly embarrassed. The prolonged dry period has resulted in a serious impact on agriculture. A cow, pathetically emaciated, was trying to chew the dry grass; Kujanbabu removed his eyes, cleared this throat and said, “How many in India get a square meal, Sir? Floods, draughts, epidemics, have become an inseparable part of our existence. Production has decreased. Even if there was abundance, Old Chaitanya had to starve nearly every day because nobody helped him.” “He can play the flute, and so is quite proud. I have spoken to him a few times. He considers himself to be the son of God.” “Today God’s own children are starving to death. The doctor laughed heartily.”

64  Anil Gharai Kujonbabu folded his hands and said, “Well, I will be going. Meet you again.” Old Chaitanya recovered completely within a few days. Sitting on the iron cot, he was singing his favourite song. O boatman, here is the money Please wait a while, and row me across. Chhutu came late in the evening, with powdered puffed rice. She said, “O grandfather, what lovely musical notes come forth from you flute. I tried it once. They told me to chew raw ginger and then wash my mouth. I didn’t. Let’s see if I get tuberculosis or not.” Old Chaitanya shivered, “For shame dear. Don’t say so I feel sad. Why should you have tuberculosis? That disease is not for all.” Old Chaitanya’s eyes filled with tears and he said, “May you live long, whatever is my age, may it be double for you. You will be very happy.” Chhutu laughed, her lips were red with betel juice, “If I live to be as old as you, then even my photo will be printed in the newspaper. Then, how will I show my face?” Old Chaitanya was alone after Chhutu left. To pass his time he came and sat in the field. The gentle cool breeze made him drowsy. His head was always heavy, perhaps due to the strong medicines. Everything seemed to be like a spider’s net. Everything that was visible looked like a corpse covered with black cloth. Startled, he rubbed his eyes. Just then four five young men whose faces were familiar to him, came up to him. They were speaking without a stop. One had handbills in his hand; another had posters and a bucket full of glue. The boy on whose hands there was paint is Jagai Saha. Keeping his cycle aside he said, “Grandfather, we were coming to meet you. Hardly any time is left for the vote, so we are booking you in advance. This time you have to give us your vote, it will be the first vote. We have been losing, this time you have to be in our favour.” The boy, with his hands full of glue, spoke in a cordial voice, “One of you, take the measurement of grandfather’s feet. Party will buy him a pair of shoes, and dhoti and a phatua.” Another said “Don’t worry about your food. We are responsible for it. You need not move around the sea-side and pick up the leftover of the tourists, anymore.” Old Chaitanya did not expect so much. So, this time people seem to be excited over the election outcomes. Trying to think, he lost track of his thoughts. What to say, what were his demands, he could not remember. Only Chhutu’s playful happy face and hands without bangles flashed in the corner of his eyes. He swallowed and said, “I have just recovered from fever. Give me some money, if you have. If I am alive till the vote days, I promise, I will vote for you. But this time if anyone wants to take my picture, he will have to pay me. Nothing will be available free this time.”

The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)  65 Giving him five, and ten rupee notes, the boys went away. Before going, they made him swear seven times in the name of Goddess Kali. – “If you betray us, then your tongue will start bleeding.” Old Chaitanya shivered. Then looking at the currency notes, he regained his strength. Seven days before vote, Kujonbabu came with his group. Like a rightful owner, he said, “Grandfather, hope you remember us.” Old Chaitanya nodded and said, “Can I ever forget you? You took me to the hospital; else I would have rotten to death here. For you, I can see the world again.” A smile crossed Kujonbabu’s face. He came closer, “So let me tell you about the necessities. How much do I need to give you this time?” Old Chaitanya lost himself in deep thoughts for a few days. A certain matter did not give him rest. He had bought a dozen bangles for Chhutu who was overjoyed to get it. When he gave the dear girl ten rupees, she began sobbing. “Why are you crying? Look at me, what happened?” Chhutu wiped her eyes and spoke in the voice of losing everything held dear, “O grandfather, my marriage is fixed. The boy came, he is happy. But they have many demands. Where will father get so much money? Your grandsonin-law wants a thousand rupees, even a watch, a cycle, and a radio- otherwise they will not proceed.” Having given the information, Chhutu walked away slowly. Since that day, the old man has not been sleeping. If it had not been for this girl, where would he be? She gave him her share of the rice; she gave him bidi from her father’s container. If he could have done something for the girl, he would have felt honoured. But he is so unfortunate, for him mustard comes after meat. What can he do? Yet, he will try, one last try. Old Chaitanya got the chance when Kujonbabu asked him some questions, twice. He rubbed his hands and said, “You need not give me rice this time. I am all alone, what will I do with it? You give me five hundred rupees. I need the money urgently.” – “Five hundred rupees,” Kujonbabu stared at him, angrily. He said, “There must be a limit to greed. As it is, there is shortage in party fund, where will I get the money from? You are creating trouble.” – “What is the trouble about? If it is suits, you will give, if not, you will not give.” Then Old Chaitanya presented a made-up story, “The other day, Haradhan babu came, he is willing to give five hundred. But, I have been benefited by you, how can I betray you? So, I said no to him. You can find out if you do not believe me.” – “The amount is too much,” said Kujonbabu in a low voice looking at Chaitanya, who spoke in a firm voice, “Five hundred, in five years is not much. It means hundred per year. And how much will you earn in these years by spending just five hundred?” Old Chaitanya started laughing.

66  Anil Gharai Kujonbabu gave him five hundred with contempt and scorn, “See that we win. If not, you will have to return the money. Five hundred is not a joke.” Old Chaitanya counted the money, and then with his walking stick with great difficulty walked towards Haradhan babu’s house, in the west locality. If he did not go in the dark night and Kujonbabu’s boys would get to know about it and they would skin him alive. It was the night of full moon. In the winnowing wild wind, the bamboo cluster was trembling. The field was then spotlessly white. The land might not have any good qualities but it certainly had beauty. Old Chaitanya gazed and gazed. Today, a thousand rupees occupied the entire arena of his pocket. He had never seen such a big amount, in his whole life, before this day. Chhutu’s marriage was a few days before the vote. Tinu refused to take the money from him. Finally, after a lot of coaxing and an oath, Tinu was forced to take it. Old Chaitanya said, “Make arrangements for the wedding. I will give the cycle, the watch and everything in due time. Don’t think about it.” Tinu was astonished, “Where did you get the money from, Khuro? Do you know magic?” Old Chaitanya burst out laughing. He said, “Listen son, I have no one, I am thinking of selling my house. What is the use of keeping it? Whatever few days I will live, I will stay with you. Will you not give me shelter?” Chhutu stood listening with tearful eyes. She said, “I gave you a little rice and you are repaying it like this.” Old Chaitanya wiped her tears, “Mother mine, who has the heart to give a little rice? There are hard times. The breeze will catch on fire if you throw a lighted match stick. Tell me, you won’t forget me when you go away with your husband. When you get the news of my death, do come.” “Don’t speak like this grandfather, I cannot control my tears. Every girl has to cry when she leaves for her in-law’s place. If I shed all my tears now, how will I cry then?” Chhutu’s marriage took place in the evening. Old Chaitanya supervised everything for Chhutu. When the couple came to touch his feet and seek blessings, he placed his hand on Chhutu’s head and said, “Stay happy, dear one. May your heart always cry for others! ” Tinu’s son-in-law, a Group-D staff, in the District hospital, said, “Grandfather, we will take you along. Pack up your belongings.” Everything was packed. Early dawn old Chaitanya went and stood in front of his poor house. He kept his shoes, the new dhoti and phatua. He wore his old dirty phatua and tied the short dhoti and then entering his room, he joined his hands together to pray and offer his respects to the vermillion coloured stalks of paddy. Then, he brought out his flute. He wanted to blow into it, but stopped in fear. Hanging the bundle on his stick, he came up on the dyke with great effort. The moon was still shining in its glory. He left the village behind. Standing in the empty field, he wondered, “Which way should he go?”

The Old Man and His Vote (Vote Budo)  67 The world has three parts of water and one part of land. Then is the water calling him?

---xxxx--Glossary Achol Paisa Baluchar Bidi Dhoti Geeta Goddess Kali Kartal Kiranjali Maa Sitala Mastoor Pardeshi Phatua Shutki Taktaposh Tury Yatra

— Obsolete coin — Sand bed — Slender cigarette-filled tobacco flake and rolled in tree leaf — Unstitched cloth wrapped around the waist and legs — Hindu scripture — Manifestation of Goddess Durga — Cymbal — A small round fishing net — Presiding female deity — Trainer — Foreigner — A loose cotton waist coat — Fish preserved by seasoning and drying in the sun — Plain rectangular cot —  To produce a sound using a middle finger and thumb — Open air opera party

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Vote Budo” in Shera Panchasti Galpo: Anil Gharai. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014, pp. 320–323.

3 Kalketu Anil Gharai

Abstract Kalketu is a heart-rending yarn of a poor Bagdi woman in the rural heartland of Bengal. However, she shows fierce grit against the lustful men in power after her father’s sudden demise. It’s also a feisty tale of a village woman crusading against domestic violence. The Kalketu-Fullora myth operates as a leitmotif throughout the story. Keywords Kalketu; Fullora; Myth; Bagdi

Tall and lanky, wearing a loose long kurta and swinging his lean hands, the man was darting forward. Suddenly in terrible anger, passed his hand in his dirty, rough uncombed hair, and with an ugly look shouted, Fulloooo, stoooop. Fullora looked back once, then catching the earthen round pot full of coarse flour she sped with the speed of a storm. On the Jagatkhali Dam, her footsteps sounded like that of a wild bison. Darkness had descended on the nearby fields and fallows. The sound, spread across the marsh, echoed in horrible repulsiveness. Suddenly from the cluster of Babla trees, birds began to screech. Fullora stopped for a moment and settled her loose and disheveled sari, and clutched the earthen pot still firmly. Her legs trembled. Speeding from Lakhria haat, she felt tired, and in trying to draw a deep breath, she realized that she would not be able to move even a yard. Tears flowed down her cheeks. The earthen pot began to slip from her sweaty hands, again and again. That afternoon after a dip in the pond, when she was combing her hair, her mother said, “Fullo dear, after rest, go to the chakki to grind the wheat.” Fullora wanted to protest but she did not. She knew that if she went in the afternoon, all the way to the chakki in the sweltering heat, she would start drooping away in weariness. The shopkeepers would too keep staring. Evening is better. So many people, all talking and laughing, the market is then so lively. In the middle of all this, the sound of the chakki is like the music of the band party. Oh, why will she not enjoy all that and trudge in the fiery heat to Lakhria? Her mother seems to be lacking in common sense, these days. DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-6

Kalketu  69 Right now she was snoring under the shade of the barrow tree, where was the time for her, to think about her daughter? In the evening, she took the earthen pot and walked straight to Poddar’s chakki. O God, what a big crowd! The entire Kaligunj, Haatgacha, Anantapur, Doyem, Kumari, are in the cultivation of wheat. The shallow machine and the deep tube wells have made the fields so beautiful that one cannot turn away one’s eyes from it. Naturally, the chakkis are flourishing. Fullora placed her earthen pot after fifteen–twenty people and sat quietly. The little boy of chakki, his hair was made white by the coarse flour, he was licking an ice cream, and looking around in joy. He said, “O Fullo di what are you thinking of? That it will be dark by the time you can return, is it not?” Looking at the bags and pots, Fullora remembered her father. When father was alive, she had gone to the fields at Chapra, with his meal. Seeing the lush green wheat plants, her heart swelled in joy. The sound of the shallow machine could be heard all over the field. The iron giant was sprinkling water all over. The wheat saplings on receiving water seemed to be swaying like the players in kabbadi. Keeping the meal quickly, she ran into the field and started plucking the soft wheat stalk. Her father had cried out in pain, “Don’t tear it Fullo, it is Goddess Lakshmi.” Embarrassed, Fullora looked at her father. “What is he saying? How can wheat stalks be Lakshmi?” At that moment, turning around she kept staring at her father. Who was caressing the wheat seedlings, as if they were his children? When she was very young, she often went with her father to Buromatala to listen to jatra gaan. If she dozed off, her father would say, “Keep awake dear, it is time for Bholababa to come,” all the while, stroking her forehead ever so lovingly. Now she is a grown-up girl and when the young boys, trouble makers as they are known in the village, stare at her, the wicked look in their eyes make her shiver, and she remembers her father’s words, – “My dear one, one day I will dress you as a queen.” Her father did not keep his promise. At the Kaliganj hospital, just after a little stomach disorder, he left like the playful winter wind without saying a word. What a liar her father was! He had said that he would buy her a beautiful red dress with pockets, and had said that he would send her to school to study and then arrange her marriage with a gentleman. He did not keep his word. Not one. Her eyes fill up with tears every time she remembers her father. She is still to understand whether he was a God or a human being like them. He was so thin with his sunburnt eyes and sunken cheeks that you could count his ribs. Yet, he was full of love and care for others. How? What was the source of it all? She is yet to understand. Actually, she is a fool. Else is this the time to go out, just when her eye lids are so heavy with sleep. This is not the place where girls and boys hold hands in the darkness and enjoy the cool breeze of Judges Court. Is all this possible in villages? The doctor’s

70  Anil Gharai son came from Kolkata with a girl, O what a hue and cry was raised! The murubbis got together and composed a song, while the boys of the bagdi locality set the tune that charmed all. O daughter with spectacles and wrist watch, and high heels too! I go out for a breath of fresh air. At home is her father, the daughter-in-law with her sleeveless blouse; looks in wonder, here and there, here and there. At Kulberia, the men of the locality drinking the juice of the palmyra fruits sang the song in broken voice. Dressed up as the Kolkata girls, what dance did they dance, and the people of the village swallowed it, as enthusiastically as if they were swallowing a rasogulla. Fullora had seen her one day. She was very beautiful like the nurse of the hospital. She could cook different dishes. She knew how to stich and embroider. She also knew how to sing. Who could compete with her? To tolerate the bad things said about the doctor’s daughter-in-law who looked like Goddess Durga, was nothing but a sin. Fullora did not like it. One day, a man came to grind chura, and Fullora took him to task, “Listen uncle, your widowed daughter fell in love with Narain, spent time for days together and then died after taking Folidol; no song was composed about her. What type of people are you? How can you spread tales criticizing the simple innocent daughter-in-law? For shame! For shame! You ought to be flogged with a broom for destroying the village.” This time Fullora had gone to cast her vote only to find that, Gobindo, said to be the powerful and influential man in the village, had done her job of casting vote. Her body burnt in anger. After such a long wait, finally her name figured in the list and this was the result. What a quarrel followed leading to the use of hands as well as feet. The home guards were ready; they spoke to Fullora and sent her home. And Gobindo was sent to the jail. He returned thin and sickly. Since then Gobindo was on the watch, to deal a blow at the right time. After the death of Fullo’s father the family was in a bad state. As a widow, her mother received from the local office 2 kg wheat, a new sari, sometimes a rupee or two, hay and other materials to thatch the roof. Gobindo being the powerful man of the village wasted no time to take revenge. He concocted a story and stopped the aid. He also said, “Fullora is a prostitute, she lies flat on her back to earn money. Stop the aid; it should be given to the truly needy ones.” Gobindo’s sycophancy stopped the aid. Difficult time followed. The old saris began tearing, the thatched, roof, needed repair, so what? Fullora was still alive. Her beautiful body helped to earn a lot, she was now more beautiful. If the body is fit, there can be no scarcity. If happiness is destined, then which fool can ruin her? She did feel sad. Without discrimination or trial, suddenly the verdict was given and the head was off. Can anyone accept such judgement these days? Ok, all days cannot be the same. “Like the thread of a spool, you will be in my grip one day. This is the law of the age, that day I will judge you people. You spread stories, you don’t stop from slandering

Kalketu  71 or saying wicked things about a young girl, what do you gain from it?” Like the fire of husk about to reduce into ashes, the stigma now lingered in Fullora’s breast. The charges of adultery against Fullora were completely baseless. Actually Gobindo’s eyes were on her. He was trying out plans to bring her within his grip. “Is Fullora so cheap? You call and Fullora will go immediately and say I am yours, you are mine. I give a damn.” A shiver runs down Fullora’s spine every time she remembers that day at the pond side. Like the “hele” snake, Gobindo, dead drunk, had come to take a dip, and what a scene he created. Why do people, still vote for him? Can anyone accept the base minded, who can utter such words, “I swear, in the name of God that I spend sleepless nights for you. My wife, I feel is like a rotten pumpkin.” The words created a feeling of loathing, and she spat on the ground; she felt nauseous, and as she was about to leave, Gobindo with his staggering steps came and caught her hand, and bit her cheeks muttering endearments. Fullora pulled her free and gave him a slap that left its mark on his face. That fellow came back to his senses, rubbing his hands across his face, he said, “You slapped me Fullo, do you know your father and I used to drink together?” Fullo did not waste words; she washed her feet and started walking. That drunkard, his eyes red like the shimul flower, stared at her in anger and hissed, “Woman, you have such anger and hatred, well, my name is Gobindo, I will deal with you surely.” Fullora spat again and came away. Returning home, she took bath again. When her mother asked, she said that she had been to the bhagar, “A dog touched my sari.” Her mother stared; she could not understand Fullora’s words. Since then, Fullora has often thought, perhaps it was not right to slap but what else could she have done, at that situation? Like dog, like hammer. Had she been timid they would have torn her to pieces, such was their lust. Her mothers’ spiritual guide had defined beauty in various ways. Woman’s beauty has the sharpness of a knife, one who falls on it, will be cut into pieces. There will be bloodshed. Fullo remembers his words, beauty is the tide; it can carry away anyone, anytime; beauty is like the hidden sands of the burning ghat, one step, and you go down and still down, no chance of coming out. Remembering the words, Fullora looked at herself in the mirror. Except a pimple or two, hers was a glowing face. There was a lustre in her well-shaped body. A time comes when young girls grow like the manure fed jute plants, juicy, lush, and exuberant, in the monsoon. Perhaps, she was going through such a time. On reaching the pakur tree, Fullora could run no more. Blood was oozing out from her feet, it was painful. She looked back, in fear. Yes, there he was coming with quick long steps, to catch her. She could not wait any more. If she could run, for another twenty minutes she would reach her village and then call for help. But would she be able to do so? Her heels refused to carry her, she felt extremely tired.

72  Anil Gharai She turned around again; then from within her, someone shook her with the determination of the horse. She began running through the darkness, spreading dust, as the whole area echoed with the sounds of her footsteps. At Poddars’ mill in the evening, she saw him, standing against a wall, on which the picture of near-nude girls of the Balaka film were stuck, smoking a Charminar. They eyed one another in anger. The queue at the shop, this time is always long, and she had to wait. Lights were switched on and she was worried. She began talking with the owner about the rates, when a small boy, a helper in the sweetmeat shop came and gave her a ten rupee note. Unable to understand anything, she caught his hand and said, “Who gave this?” Pointing a finger towards the man, the boy ran away. Finding no way, Fullora kept the earthen pot and went to the open urinal to nab him. Pressing a part of the sari on her nose she said, while spitting, “Here you take your money back, and go back home.” Saying so, she turned around to go back, but the man implored, “Brought it for you, don’t give it back, I beg you Fullo, take it.” And a broad smile spread across his face. It was too much. Crumbling up the note she threw it, “Forgot the last year’s slap, is it? You are a shameless fellow indeed.” The man did not protest, “Don’t be angry, meet me at the dyke, I will wait near the date tree,” he said with a broad smile. Fullora’s whole body began to feel the pricks of prickly heat. She bit her lower lip and said, “What do you want? Speak it out.” – The man laughed, “I will help you get the aid back, buy you saris, what not, only I want you.” No sooner did he finish than Fullora pushed him, with all her might. The man fell into the pool of filth and urine by the sudden push. Growling in anger he said, “You woman, you will pay for this. You have nothing to eat, your husband is deranged, and he has turned you out, yet such temper.” He starts trembling in anger. – “Ok, I am going but yes one day you will have to fall into a difficult and tight situation,” the man left, still hurling abuses at her. Fullora joined hands in silent prayer to Anandamoyee Maa and stood there in fear and shame. A few people passed her, but no one could understand the depth of her sorrow. That man, set alive the old sore that had poisoned the small garden, nurtured with love, in her heart. Every step of that man spoke of his malice and wrath that filled the air. Suddenly she felt terribly helpless. She wiped her forehead for no reason; her hands started trembling as tear drops coursed down her cheeks. Three years before, in the night of full moon in the month of Fagun, dressed in a bright sari with Kaajal in her eyes and flowers in her hair, happiness in her heart and the red vermillion in the parting of her hair, Fullora began a

Kalketu  73 new life. O dear what happiness! It was like a heavy stone had been removed from the heart and so many fragrant flowers occupied the place. She remembered her father that night. He had said, “Fullo dear, I will one day dress you up like a queen.” Where was father? He left, too soon. Ok, let everyone go. Her eyes filled up with tears. At night in bed, that man, her husband from Bethua, chewing betel leaf and laughing said, “What’s wrong? Does anyone cry, on such night?” “My father had said, one day he would dress me up like a queen. Today, I cannot stop thinking about him. Where did he go away? Who knows?” she replied through tears. “Oh! And for this you are wasting this night, of consummation crying! Are you mad?” “Brojeshwar Pangla of Bethuadehri, gaunt and lean, he says, I am crazy. If I catch him he will not find a way to run yet, he speaks such big words.” Fullora was sad, looking at her husband, she said, “Your mother is alive?” Showing all his teeth in a broad smile he said, “Yes.” “Your sister?” “Yes.” - “Co-wife?” Brojeshwar passed his hands through his hair and twisting his face like a vulture, he laughed again. – “The last one was there, but no more. That woman always wanted money. She wanted to go to the cinema, wanted me to press her hands and feet. Horrible. One day late in the evening, she was lying dead in the van. Maybe some bastard, who did not agree with the rates, killed her. That is why I married you,” laughing like an idiot, he wiped the betel juice from the corner of his mouth, he touched Fullo’s hand. “Come close; let me embrace you. What a beautiful face! Like the dolls of Krishnanagar.” It did not take long for Fullora to find out that he was totally insane and a drunkard too. Returning home in the afternoon having taken taari he often addressed her as aunty – “Give me some rice aunty, feeling nauseous.” Before marriage, he made many false claims, “I have this, and I have that.” In reality, he did not have even a house of his own to stay. Fullora started sobbing but nothing could be done. The vermillion mark given by the man was now her identity; she could not walk out and begin anew; she felt feverish. The man told her that he worked in an office, people called him babu, and they bribed him to get their work done. All made-up stories were of no use. The man had cheated her terribly. Why was her father’s elder brother impatient, in getting her married? So, from somewhere, he got this man and everything was over in no time. “Oh uncle why did you do this? For some money, you fixed my marriage with this mad drunkard.” In the evening, Brojeshwar came home, dead drunk. Looking at Fullora in the light of the moon, blood beat up in flames in his veins. He squeezed her breasts, bit them and then paying no attention

74  Anil Gharai to her pain said, “Give me money, vile woman! Else go and sleep with that young helper of Rakhahari’s shop and earn money. Otherwise I will skin you alive.” Fullora pressed her lips and covered her breasts with bed sheets. Then she spat on his face, “You vulture, why don’t you die?” She abused her uncle; she did not spare her dead father too. The next morning, clad in a sari and without taking anything, she reached Brahmanitala. Even today, she becomes cold in fear to think about it. After three years, by constantly applying the ointment of patience and consolation on the wound, is she surviving in the midst of all difficulties? Finally, she came back to the mill. Grinding was complete. Picking up the earthen pot and pulling the sari over her shoulder tightly so that the torn blouse could not be seen, she felt sad to think that she has been wearing this blouse for over a month, so many times she asked her mother for money to buy a blouse but her mother was not concerned. Her days were over, and she had neither the time nor the desire to spend money on a daughter who could not adjust at her husband’s place. Her aim was to let her become a dry brinjal as soon as possible. “Mother earns quite a lot by grinding cheera. Yet, if she has to give even a single coin, she feels someone has cut off a slice of her flesh.” In her childhood days, when she asked her mother for eight annas to go the charak fair, her mother refused. She said, eight annas would fetch half a kilo of rice, why waste money at the fair? Fullora turned a deaf ear. Her friend and sister, the daughter of her father’s elder brother and many others were going with money they had saved. She sat at the door step and began an intolerably loud wail. Her mother, exasperated, gave her a ten-paisa coin, “Now, stop your wailing.” Fullora took it and then growling in anger threw it at her mother’s face, pressed her sari on her eyes and began abusing her mother. Still she never gave anything more. Rather, irritated she threw a handful of hot sand at her daughter. “O father, O father, she is going to burn me,” Fullora started shrieking while tying the laces of her shorts. So, naturally her mother is not concerned about her torn blouse. If she asked for money, her mother would scold her with angry movements of her mouth, “Yes, you daughter of a king, every month a blouse or something, your father has left a mint, at the time of his death he planted a tree for you to shake it and coins will start falling from it.” After this, there is nothing more to say. She is a girl, so she will need powder, snow, ribbons blouse. There are extra expenses too. Where will she manage it from? She gets twenty rupees for washing clothes and utensils, but even that is not her own. Her mother has her kite-eyes on it. Before the month ends, today five, then two, then a kilo of rice, little oil and salt, the doctor and medicine and twenty rupees is spent. Even if she manages to get one or two rupees, she has to give it else the village will say, “Fullo, who works at the babughar spent twelve rupees and fifty paise to buy a soft padded small blouse.” Her mother will beat her forehead, her breasts and create extensive public criticism.

Kalketu  75 The compliments left Fullora dumbfounded. She told the owner, “Take one kilo, my hands are absolutely empty.” She was tired of running. The sweat on her forehead had gathered in the curve of her breasts. The man was darting forward, his body full to the brim with indomitable obstinacy. Fullora had no time to look backwards, in the deepening twilight she could spot the man’s hyena eyes and powerful neck. She turned cold in fear. To save herself, she sat at the middle of wild bushes. Sitting there, she drew in a long breath wondering what was destined for her. The man came and stopped abruptly looking right and left. Fullora could hear the sound of his panting. She thought that it would be safer to crawl and reach the sugarcane field then take a roundabout way to reach home instead of sitting here. So, she began to crawl slowly, knowing the area was infested with poisonous insects and snakes. Let it be. She has to save herself from this devil. Slowly, too slowly she reached the marshy land. The slope towards the dam began from this point and reached the marshy land. The man was about a hundred yards away looking towards Kaligunj hospital, to see when Fullora will come, he lit a bidi, and then smoking he began walking, his legs were perhaps giving away, so he sat down. Fullora was quite far, a little more distance to cover and she would reach the villages, and finally home. She prayed and began crawling again. Her hands and legs were bruised, her clothes and body dusty. If she could cross just this marsh, she would be partially safe. Then, she would shout for help, gather people, if she did not get justice she would go to the police station. The thoughts had slackened her speed. She has to cross this part very carefully, else she would fall straight into the water and the man would catch her easily. With all her strength, she caught a pole. She pulled her sari free from the thorny bushes, moved a little to catch the second pole. The rough pointed bamboo went inside her nails. Her face twisted in pain, “Ooh,” she cried softly. She moved a little further. Like this manner, along the dangerous path. Her knotted hair flying loosely, stuck on her face with sweat and mud. She pressed the pot in the sticky soil and plaited her hair. She also wrapped the loose ends of her sari tightly, then with her right hand, she caught the third pole, pushed her body a little forward. There was a lump of clay and the moment she placed her foot, it flattened the hold, her left hand became slack. She began rolling down, but alert all the while. Finding a tree, she held on to it firmly. The earthen pot lay sideways. Parts of her body was cut and scratched, blood was oozing out from the side of her heavy breasts, her lips were bruised badly, and as she felt the salty taste of blood in her mouth, she sobbed, “O mother, mother dear.” Thinking carefully about a plan of action, the man nearly felt the slight burn of his bidi. Throwing it, he looked around, but it was so dark that he could see nothing. So he started walking straight. At a point of time, his feet were stuck in the wheat flour and looking down he received a shock. His heart danced with joy to think that his prey was finally caught in a net.

76  Anil Gharai Looking at the marsh, the man remained rooted to the spot. He could see that this was the spot where the dam broke in the last flood causing loss of life and property. With the help received from the local office, somehow the dam was given a temporary support so that it would not betray. But how does it matter? The torrent of water rushing forth from its sides is deep. If one falls into it, then all will be over in the wink of an eye. Right there, Fullora, with her well-shaped breasts clearly visible, was hanging on to that single tree. She would be washed away if the tree was uprooted. The earthen pot, by the Grace of God, was still intact, and it would not roll down. The tall slender brazen faced man felt his cheeks. No, the mark of the five fingers is no more visible. All the filthy water and urine on his kurta is dry, so he does not kick Fullora. He strikes the match and brings up the earthen pot, and then extends his weak hand, “Here, hold tightly and come up slowly.” Balancing herself on her elbows, Fullora came up and breathed deeply for a long while. It was as though the dyke had sat on her soft body, and like her insane husband mouthed her breasts hungrily. She spread out her hand and feet and wailed, “O mother, I do not want to live anymore.” The man dusted her hands and feet and tried to steady her, “Don’t cry Fhullo, who can wipe out the dictates of fortune? Come with me; wipe out the dictates of fortune. Come with me, wipe your tears let us sit in the bushes and talk. If anyone of the village finds us here like this, there will be a scandal.” He tried to pull her up but could not. He bent down, and said in a low voice, “Don’t go to work anymore, and be with me. I will give fifty rupees every month, meals too.” Fullora wiped her face and eyes, “Just go from here. My whole body writhes in disgust to see you. You are a vile creature.” “Why, why am I a mote in your eye? Oh no!, I am speaking for your good. Don’t get so angry. Think and speak, you will then go far in life.” “I am well aware of life. Now you go.” “What are you saying? Did I pull you up, only to go away? You don’t have a husband; think of me, all will be fine.” Fullora took a handful of wheat flour and threw it at his eyes. As it stuck in his eye sockets, he yelled in pain. That moment Fullora bit his cheeks, gave him four to five kicks, and then staggered homewards. In the darkness, her eyes filled up with tears. Her mother had said, “Do not go in the evening, it’s a long way, full of dangers, you will feel scared,” she did not listen. That is why it is often said to listen to the old, for theirs is the voice of wisdom. Washing his face, the man hissed in anger with a desire to take the ultimate revenge. He started following her. If he can catch her once, he will not spare her he will tear that well-shaped body of hers into pieces. He will teach her a lesson. In fear, Fullora tried to walk faster still, but she could not. Exhausted, she stopped, not being able to walk a step further. She turned around. Nobody, anywhere. Only a few yards away, she spotted a heap. A faint whining reached her ears. Observing carefully, she saw, it was the same man she had kicked and pushed. Her eyes brightened up in joy; she thanked her goddess a thousand

Kalketu  77 times and then plodded homewards. After a while, she stopped to settle her sari, passed her fingers through her hair like a comb, and then drank water from the roadside tap. Then after what seemed to be an eternity, she started walking. Leaving the cluster of bamboos behind, she reached the shade of the tall trees. Here at the tap, she found Fulmoni, filling a bucket. She smiled as she saw Fullora, “Your husband has bought a big container full of rosgullas and he has planned to take you along this time.” “What?” she shouted in anger, “that bastard is here again. Couldn’t you beat him up? Call the boys to chase him out. That drunkard will make my life hell,” and tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke. Helpless she moved on, to find her husband sitting comfortably on the bamboo platform in the courtyard smoking in front of her mother, who was standing. The young girls and boys who sold off a kilo of the rice, grain, wheat from house to buy cinema tickets were teasing him merrily. – The man was saying, “Hope you are well, mother. I came, to take your daughter this time. I don’t go to the liquor shops any more, turned over a new leaf. I help in tying bidi, taken a room on rent, twenty-five rupees.”   Fullora’s mother took the sweets and said sternly, “Good, that you came, but now leave while your prestige is unimpaired. Otherwise the boys of the village will skin you alive.” – “Why mother? Why will they do so? Is there no justice in this land?” – “Who says so? That is why I am asking you to go,” Fullora’s mother’s voice became loud and harsh, “Go home son, go back to your father’s lap. Don’t come here. I will arrange for Fullo’s marriage again.” – Brojeshwar looked at his mother-in-law’s face and said, “What language! What a face! Like the pig’s posterior. Not a single sweet word.” “I have come to take my own wife,” but seeing the old woman’s anger, he did not utter the words, he only stared. Fullora walked in slowly keeping the earthen pot aside, she stood by her mother’s side, silently. Then after a while, she said, “So crazy moon, finally you came?” – With a broad smile that spread from one corner to another corner of his mouth, Brojeshwar, replied, “Yes, where were you all this while?” – “Where else, my crazy husband chased me out. I was spending intimate moments with another.” The words were not simply words, but the fire of charcoal. It singed Borjeshwar’s heart in a moment. – “So I was saying, tomorrow we will set out for Bethua by the eight o’ clock bus. I have taken a house on rent, twenty-five rupees. It is just in front of the cinema hall. We will go to see Baba Taraknath.” – “What fanciful thinking! The hunch backed wants to lie flat,” Fullora started laughing.

78  Anil Gharai – “Don’t laugh, craziness has fled, bought an amulet from the Haajib of Patula. I will fetch one for you as well. Then within a year a son will adorn your lap.” Fullora’s mother was taken aback, the earthen container slipped from her hands and fell on the ground and broke. Everyone stared at it, their mouth wide open. But there were only four small rosgullas inside the big container. Fullora picked up the sweets one by one and started throwing at the man in fury, screaming all the time, “Get out!” And finally covering her face with her hands, she broke down in tears. Then, trembling, she walked inside and closed the door and beat both her hands against the wall. The conch bangles that she had been saving all these days broke into pieces. She tried to wipe out the vermillion mark put in her parting by this man, but could not. Her face started glowing with the vermillion dust that she tried to wipe out, in vain. She felt helpless; she realized the vermillion had gone through the tough hide of the parting line, into the very depth of her being. The seven steps she walked with her husband, with the chanting of mantras at the time of marriage, the saptapadi that was to bind them together through thick and thin have created a deep wound in her heart. Crouching like the centipede, she sank down. The chaos outside did not reach her. That night she refused food, her mother and the neighbours insisted, “Take a little, it is your bad luck, what can you do? But you have to eat; otherwise you will become weak.” A little later, she came to know that the young boys had beaten up Brojashwar. A deep cut on his forehead, his nose was bleeding profusely. He was admitted in the hospital at Kaligunj. Hearing this, she vomited the little food she had taken. Her mother said, as she came in after washing her mouth, “Will have to wake up early, and grind flattened rice, that Senbabu sent. If I don’t do it, we will have to fast.” In the breeze of early dawn, there was a fragrance of winter. She dreamt that people have gathered at the holy place of their village. Nilambar, the son of Indra, the king of Gods, being cursed by Mahadev, was coming down to the earth. Encouraged by the sound of his rhythm, many were dancing; the old were singing a sad song. Fullora’s father pinched her to keep her awake. Coughing, he said, “Keep awake, see ‘Dharmaketu’ will now come, bow and arrow in hand, he will shoot arrows here and there, oh what fun!” Fullora opened her eyes wide, yes an old man with a bow in his hand, was saying something. Looking at her father she said, “Father, he is Hari uncle, isn’t it?” Then a muscular young man, with curly black hair and large wide eyes, came in, took an aim with his arrow, and said, “Be careful.” Her father smiled and said, “He is Kalketu, your husband, touch his feet.” As she was about to touch his feet, her mother pushed her, “Get up, we have to’ grind the cheera.”

Kalketu  79 She woke up, staring at her mother’s face; she felt the lines of worry that marked the face. It was like a snake, lying quietly, but at the first chance, would inject poison. The corner of her eyes began to fill with tears, she trembled, her face, her nose became red. Pressing her lips she saw, the screeching owl flying away and it made her crouch in fear. Looking at her mother, with tear stained eyes she started sobbing, “Mother, that crazy man will survive, won’t he, mother?”

---xxxx--Glossary Anandamoyee Maa Babla Bagdi Bhagar Bholebaba Chaki Chura Haat Hele saap Kalketu Lakshmi Murubbi Pakur Shimul Yatra gaan

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Indian saint The acacia Of low Hindu caste A Carrion deposit Lord Shiva Flour mill Flattened rice Weekly local market A species of non-poisonous snake The warrior Goddess wealth and prosperity A leader/custodian of law A species of fig tree The silk cotton flower Song sung in open air opera

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Kalketu” in Shera Panchasti Galpo: Anil Gharai. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014, pp. 21–33.

4 Gung Tod Anil Gharai

Abstract The open fields, the unrushed moving waters of the dyke and the rustic lifestyle add an incredible charm to the story. Rani, the protagonist of the story, is a young girl who spends her time in the fields and fallows and witnesses the playfulness of the small fish in the dyke. Though she is eager to meet the boy, who wants to marry her, her dreams are shattered by his uncouth behavior. She longs to break all the invisible fetters and aspires to swim away like the fish to converge with the ocean. Keywords Dyke; Rustic Life; Ocean

Looking at the turbid water of the Khal, Rani often feels she is also like the flowing water, and the ocean is calling her. She is astonished to think of the similarity she has with the water course. She knows that the color of the slimy mud near the Khal par will cling to her forever. Her habits will put to shame the easy-going youthfulness of the small red chiya fishes. Like the energetic horse, Rani cannot remain in one place. She keeps on wandering the whole day all around without any aim. It seems her legs are horse hoops. Moving from one locality to another is easier for her than to burst out into a delightful laughter with her friends. The maiden khal has no friend and Rani too is without a companion. The beautiful waves and their slow, melodious rolling and crashing sound against the small pebbles find its echoes in Rani’s jingling anklets. Rani is brimming with colors and animation. Now and then she resembles the waters of the khal springing with a ringing laugh, so sweet and attractive that it seems to linger on her lips. There used to be no over pass in these areas those days, save for an unstable bamboo foot-bridge. Commuting from one side to another was extremely scary. There were fear of accidents and life risks. However, the trouble and the fear have been subsided by a strong wooden bridge that is quite decorative. DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-7

Gung Tod  81 The Panchayat was thoughtful enough to favor them. It is also rumored that the wooden bridge will be replaced by a concrete bridge before the election. But Rani curls her lips in contempt to hear such talk. She is absolutely fond of this bridge. She desires to cross this bridge and wander far away where there is no turbid water, no cunning fishes – a place that holds only happiness and nothing else. The dreams of happy days surge up like billows within her and cascades down her full breasts. Rani cannot turn her eyes away from the khal while crossing the bridge; she stands there, her breasts pressed against the decorative poles of the bridge and stares at the water, quite lost in her thoughts. A shoal of pale-hued fish swims below, almost indistinguishable from the water. As they twist and turn in the water, a streak of silver flashes across their smooth bodies from the sunlight above. Rani gets filled with wonder. Their movements choreograph her thoughts and she cannot take away her eyes, no matter how hard she tries. It is customary of the fish to flow on with the ceaseless water as if they love to journey with the water in a blended harmony. Ah!! Rani has never witnessed such freedom …. To go where one wants to go, to do whatever one likes to do without restrictions. If only she could be like the fish and swim away upstream. She sighs; she becomes indifferent to worldly affairs; her soul gets dreary and lonely; sad thoughts make her languid. She realizes that she cannot go anywhere; she cannot leave the khal par. Her eyes cannot meet the impish eyes of the fishes that float so cautiously in the water and look up at the sky. Rani has no sky …. Her sky has been stolen. She is now scared of the turbid waters. Renubala says, “Daughter dear, do not go to the khal par…. It will poison your mind. There is a vast difference between salt water and sweet water; there is a world of difference between salt water fish and sweet water fish, too.” Rani gapes at her mother’s poverty-stricken face. She can utter nothing in reply, her words, like a tidal wave, rise within her. She thinks about many things while coating the sides of their mud hut with dung water. If only her life had been like the fishes of the khal, she would not have to witness her dreams reduced to ashes time and again. She would have surely procured a shelter somewhere. She could have even eloped and set up a place of her own with her loved ones. By the side of the khal, there is a market where people crowd, twice a day. Nearly everyone is known to Rani. Anyone, among them could have been her much loved one, her very own. Rani does not walk along that path. She fails to break her sorrow to bits, like the glass bangles that adorn her hands. Her father used to say, “Sorrow is like the ‘Alok latar mool’. No matter how hard you try, you will never find its source.” Her father was perhaps right. In a life full of mistakes, such as hers, fragrance of flowers has no place. The flower that bloomed for a while died in the salty breeze. People say that she is like a captivating fish. May be they are correct but she is not the hilsa fish, lustrous and smooth; she, at the best, can be the salty, sticky clay fish by the side of the channel.

82  Anil Gharai She loved Bishu. Bishu was like the fresh water shoul fish that plays in the muddy waters of rice fields. Rani thought that she belonged to him. He aroused in her an undying fire that filled her with comforting warmth. It was in the atmosphere of subtle intimacy after the physical consummation of their love that Bishu said to her, “Rani dear, I think this was not right. You gave me everything, but will I be able to do so?” “What do you mean?” She said in a startled voice, “Shall we turn back after reaching so far?” – “No one will accept you,” Bishu said avoiding Rani’s eyes. – “Let them not, you are mine.” There was a note of stubbornness in her voice, “Then why did you draw me so close? Why did you urge this warmth in me, raise great white heatwaves in me? Now if you try to tell me stories of ebb – tide, I will not accept it. I will die if you do not support me.” Fire flashed in Rani’s eyes, and then the fire gave way to tears.   Bishu said foolishly, “It is not only my fault. Age does not listen to reason. Youthfulness is an unruly ox. It tastes whatever it gets.” – “Then I am not your love, only a tasty food,” Rani wailed aloud. Bishu tried to console her, “Don’t cry, if anything happens. I am always there, to see to it. But you see salt water and sweet water cannot be the same. This is the law of the world.” Bishu went away, in the cover of darkness. All seeds do not flourish. Rani was saved; yet, the brunt of survival brings in a fresh flood of tears everyday. She can hear the sound of landship when she stands on the bridge; her eyes follow the easy movements of the fishes. How they swim! Water is their element, their true love; yet, they do not submerge themselves in the depth of the fathomless waters. They float. They only float. They play with the sun and the wind, the dewdrops and the rain. They weave no closeness; rather like a thin fragile thread, they entwine just a surface relation. Even if the thread snaps and the relation floats away in the slow rolling water, there will be no regret or sorrow. Renubala is amazed, “What is it Rani? Why do you keep looking at the water?” A faint smile crosses Rani’s lips, “My eyes are drawn towards it.” “Don’t see, keep your eyes closed.” There is a note of warning in Renubala’s words, “This canal merges with the ocean. If the relation is not deep enough, it cannot stand the test of time, it moves stealthily along the surfaces.” Startled, Rani turns to face her mother. She feels scared. A dizzying wave of fear rises within her. Perhaps that wave too wants to love and drift away, who knows where. Rani feels tired after sometime. There are tears in her eyes, and a pained expression spreads across her face.

Gung Tod  83 Renubala says softly, “The boy from Patashpur owns a grocery shop. Your uncle is trying to make negotiations for the marriage. I have seen the boy, slightly bald, but quite good looking. Don’t say no dear, though it will be a re-marriage.” “Remember even if the gold ring is curved, it is still gold.” – “Are there canals at Patashpur, mother? And do fishes swim and float in the water, out there?” Renubala tries to think, calmly. Has her daughter become mad? The girls, her childhood friends, staying around the Khal par were all married long back. When they come to their father’s place, child in arm, Rani stares at them, open-mouthed. What does she see? Her daughter too, like all other girls, has a great love for vermillion. A deep sigh courses down Renubala’s heavy breasts. Her girl is changing day by day. As a mother, she can do nothing. She can only be a silent observer. It is no use blaming poverty and scarcity. But she will be all alone after Rani’s marriage. Will she be able to endure the loneliness? Looking at the flowing waters of the khal she feels, her daughter has so much in common with it. The girl, even at this age, does not know to sit still; she is restless, by nature, like the water. How will she keep in check such unbound restlessness? Renubala’s voice becomes stern, “Listen child, learn to adjust. If you are hasty and restless like the shoal of fish, then you will only smear yourself with slime and mud. Don’t let your mind remain unbridled, bind it.” “Accept this boy. He likes you.” Rani curls her lips obstinately, “I have not seen him, till now. It cannot be a one sided affair you know.” As days pass, Rani’s spirits start drooping. Renubala tries to fix the marriage. The boy comes to their poor house one day. He looks at Rani and smiles, and she returns the smile for a smile. Her mind becomes eager; like the slimy mud she wants so much to be plastered to the male wall. Renubala has bought fish from the haat. She has cooked it with care. Tears flood out of Rani’s eyes, at the time of serving food. She is so attached to the fishes. She feels that it is not the fish that is served on the plate. Like the naked fish, it is she who is being served. The boy from Patashpur licks the last bit of the delicious mouth-watering food. Greed dances in his eyes. He looks directly at Rani and laughs, shamelessly. This time Rani cannot reciprocate. She is flooded in tears. Her lush wavy body wishes to break free from all shackles and like a full-grown fish swim away to meet the ocean.

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84  Anil Gharai Glossary Alok latar mool Chiya Dojebore Haat Hilsa Khal Khal paar Shoul

— A creeping vine, yields edible fruit — Small fresh water fish — Marrying the second time — A local market — A freshwater fish, popular in Bengal, for its full flavor — Canal, water course — Sides of the canal — A species of snakehead fish, referred to as mudfish

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Gung Tod” in Shal Patar Oshru. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2020, pp. 21–24.

5 Kak – Janmo Anil Gharai

Abstract “Kak Janmo” recounts the story of Kamona, a girl in her late teens, whose life is mired in poverty and despair. Nonetheless, she hopes for a life of respectable identity, by dint of hard work. When she is turned out of her job, her feelings convert into a confused lump of disarrayed thoughts. She comes face to face with a brave new world where her sincerity and hard work count for nothing. Rather, the stigma of her birth in a family of once-upon-a-time thieves influences the attitude of the people. The confrontation deepens as Kamona realizes that she cannot escape from the galling chain of her birth which threatens her well-being and self-esteem. Keywords Birth; Identity; Stigma; Self-esteem

It was a bright sunny day with not a speck of cloud in the sky. The morning shone through the leaves; yet, Kamona sat still, with a worried look that drained the color from her youthful face. Her eighteen-year-old body, so voluptuous by its luxuriant abundance, looked drawn, like a shrunken balloon. Sikha boudi’s behavior has always been clear and distinctly soft like the scales of the hilsa fish. Today, the well-shaped lips of that sparkling face were curled in displeasure and annoyance, “Sit there out in the corridor, till your dada comes from the bathroom, don’t step inside, careful.” – “Why boudi, what is the matter?” – “I don’t know anything; he will say what needs to be said.” The look on Sikha boudi’s face turned hard and throwing a warning glance at Kamona, she walked into the kitchen. Looking at the stern face, Kamona wondered whose face she saw on waking up that morning. Was it her mother’s? Yes, just so. Then, was mother unlucky? It could not be so. The one, DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-8

86  Anil Gharai who had given her birth, fed her with starch-rice, be inauspicious and ill omened. No, it was impossible. Looking around, Kamona felt everything was like the other days. A few crows were cawing on the branches of the ghora neem tree. With a bucket in hand, didimoni’s maid was going toward the tap to fetch water. The boy who comes to deliver milk was ringing his cycle bell in front of the quarters. Bhajans were being telecast. In the lush green fields, the shaliks were seen nibbling paddy. The birds come every day and fly around in search of food, as Kamona comes every day to this house. If everything seemed right, then what was wrong? Kamona could not surmise anything. Her throat became dry and rough like the leaves of fig tree. Panic surged through her, her hands became cold and clammy. She did not like to sit still like the tortoise. She ought to finish sweeping here, before going to three other houses. After that, collect weekly ration. If mother was out in the railway side to sort out and collect coal, then she would have to prepare rice and dal. There was so much to do yet boudi told her not to step inside. On other days, she would have completed her daily chores like washing the cups and saucers after having a cup of tea. The accounts could not be settled. As soon as she tried to think, the nerves in her forehead blazed up again and again. Since the time boudi went into the kitchen, she could not be seen. Yet, no one had ever behaved so rudely with her. Why only the other day, they went to see the film “Khalnayak.” Whenever a new film is advertised, boudi sends her to buy tickets. “Khalnayak” was just released and so there was a great rush at the cinema hall. The board with “House full” written seemed to be there always. Still they got the tickets. A boy known to Kamana obtained it for them and at a reasonable rate. Boudi was so happy. After the show, she gave Kamona a treat worth two rupees. Not only this film. Together, they had seen many films, at noon shows, without informing dadababu. Boudi’s time moves at a snail’s pace after her husband leaves for office. Kamona is then her only refuge. She wondered who and for what reason did one tear apart the reliable tender leaf so ruthlessly. Boudi never treated her like a girl from the slum. Though she washed dishes in other houses, for a living, to boudi she was nothing less than a flower. Boudi taught her how to knit sweaters, and to embroider. It was Boudi who made her the girl who can turn on the gas confidently and prepare tea. Although she was just a maid, she was looked after well, with respect. Boudi has brought up Kamona as she wished to, so Kamona, the slum girl, stands as an example today. If boudi is down with rheumatic pain, it is Kamona who lights the gas and cooks the mutton. She also knows how to use the pressure cooker. Kamona has many good qualities. Why should dadababu tell such a person not to cross the door sill? This question kept banging in her mind. Dadababu came out and began to

Kak – Janmo  87 spread shaving cream on his face. Then with soft loving strokes of a brush, he covered his face with lather. Oh how nice it looked! If only the boy she knew could take a shave with such sweet scented shaving cream everyday, then he would look exactly like the film star. In a flash, Kamona’s eyes were heavy with sweet dreams. She was transported to a distant land where eternal spring prevails and cuckoos churn out ethereal songs. Alas! There was no spring. A cold sigh from her heart flew out and in her mind’s sky appeared a tumbling down dark hut, broken tiles. Her old mother’s face ashened like that of a corpse. Everything reminded her of her grinding poverty. During monsoon, insects from the drains swarm in the small courtyard. The courtyard which seems as small as the palm of one’s hand fills up with black and nauseating water from the drain. This is the typical monsoon picture, and Kamona braves the struggle of life in the midst of these stinking lanes choked with garbage hovels where household walls are at the verge of crumbling, wobbly doors sans windows stand naked and the puny huts are congested with families of humans and their pets co-existing as in primeval state. Yet, she is healthy. There is always an exchange of words about her in the colony. Whispers, secret rumors, thrilling words reach her. She becomes subdued and withdrawn. Dadababu had just sipped the hot tea when his eyes fell on Kamona and lightning passed through his body, so it seemed. His face became harsh, his eyes serious and angry, hardening his attitude toward Kamona, he said, “Listen Kamona, you need not come here anymore. We have decided to do our work.” The words hammered on her chest; terror stabbed her heart; her stomach clenched; her innocent eyes mirrored a thousand questions, “Why, dadababu? Did I commit any mistake?” “No, nothing like that ….” Dadababu started stammering. From the kitchen flowed out the whistle of the pressure cooker. The announcer of the TV was reading out the sayings of Mahatma Gandhi. And in the ominous silence, Kamona sat still, her head bent. Dadababu walked into the bedroom as boudi waved her hand, “Don’t mind Kamona, due to some unavoidable circumstances we cannot let you come here.” Sayings of Bapuji were over. Now a dance program in the television began. A girl was dancing with a beautiful expression in her eloquent eyes. Taking her eyes away from the TV screen, boudi said, “We cannot fall into the clutches of the police, for you. You are the cause of fear for everyone in the colony.” “Why, did I steal?” anger flashed in Kamona’s eyes. “Tell me, what is my fault? Why are you depriving me of my means of livelihood? The sting of hunger compels me to work. I cannot beg.” Her eyes were filled with tears, like a river about to flood its shore. Kamona writhed in pain on being expelled from not one, but three houses. Humiliated and vehemently dejected, she walked slowly toward the shade

88  Anil Gharai of a roadside mango tree. After quite some time, while returning home, she found her legs trembling. “Why so? Is she a rowdy, unmannerly thief?” There was no answer. On reaching home, Kamona found her old mother sitting at the doorsteps and she could no longer stop her tears that rattled her entire being. – “What happened child, you came back too soon.” – “I have no work in any house, O mother.” Kamona broke down in tears and buried her face in her mother’s lap. – “I am not sad because I am driven out,” she said in a muffled voice, “but no one told me why I lost my job.” – “ The employers are utterly indifferent to our miserable plight, dear.” – There was a cold look in the old woman’s eyes. Adhar’s face floated in front of her pale eyes. In her mind’s eye, she could see every fearful detail of the incident. The prison van arrived at the basti’s entrance. Two, three policemen walked in looking for Adhar. A thick rope was tied around his waist. He was caught while trying to steal in the colony. The police had beaten him up mercilessly and then pushed him into the prison van. Those who had gathered at the spot only said, his father was a thief so the son would also be a thief. The news of Adhar’s dispatch spread at a rocket speed. Those who knew Kamona screwed up their noses and said with utter disdain, “You know Kamona’s brother is a thief, her father was a thief too. They hail from a thief’s clan.” “Is it so, oh dear? I did not know anything.” “Strange, I knew from the very first day and you did not know. The look in her eyes and her face spoke manifold.” “But Kamona has never, not even once ……” “Not now but later for sure. It runs in the blood. She will follow the family footsteps. How long will it take? This is the process you know.” “Then we cannot allow her to work, not anymore.” “No, No. Certainly not, chase her out right now.” “Yes, what if I do not get any other maid servant.” “A full purse never lacks friends. Don’t you know the age old saying?” Everyone in the slum knew that Kamona’s birth was a manat fulfilled. It was the manat for a daughter by which her parents got her. What the slum people did not know was that Kamona was a crow. When a human being becomes a crow, it has to endure abuses, reviles, bitterness, contempt, hatred and what not. Her aged mother, caressing her, was trying to explain the ordeal of the crow’s life. Actually, the old woman did not know the story of the sheep and the tiger. Had they known …

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Kak – Janmo  89 Glossary Bhajan Boudi Dadababu Ghora-neem Kaharba Manat Shalik Taal

— Devotional songs with spiritual ideas — Employer’s wife, loved as wife of one’s brother — An employer, respectable as one’s elder brother — China berry tree — Name of a raga — Promise to offer sacrifice to a deity on fulfillment of a prayer — Starlings — Eight beat division of Hindustani music

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Kak-Janmo” in Shal Patar Oshru. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2020, pp. 212–215.

6 Khadya – Khadak Anil Gharai

Abstract Set against the backdrop of a semi-urban town where people live from hand to mouth, “Khadya Khadak” is the story of Soro, an unclaimed young girl who stays in the vicinity of the railway station after her father’s untimely death. She is tortured mentally and physically by the ruffians, but is incapable of hitting back. She survives on begging and struggles to live a life of her own. Soro becomes the symbol of many like her who are maimed physically, sexually and psychologically. The story is a pointer to the fact that poverty pushes women to the edge where they undergo a crucible of exploitation. Eradication of poverty is necessary for the sustainable growth of people and society. Keywords Struggles; Poverty; Exploitation

Soro, with her dry, untrimmed, dirty hair and dark circles under her eyes, lay dozing in one corner of the station. A few goods trains passed by causing the rails to tremble; yet, Soro did not pay the slightest heed. The sounds of the speeding trains do not raise storms in her heart these days. She remembers those days, when she, a small girl, came to the station, holding her father’s hand. Her father Manmoth had told her, “You must cry and beg when you see the rich and the gentle people.” That was her hatekhori. And the first day was quite rewarding; the earning was not bad. She went with Manmoth to a roadside hotel, and enjoyed a full meal. Since that day whenever there is a scarcity of food, Soro comes to the vicinity of the station to beg. She is not a small girl any more. Her full-grown body possesses both depth and variety. In her eyes, peep and ply a thousand rosy dreams.

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-9

Khadya – Khadak  91 Manmoth died on a night of rain and storm. Taking Soro’s hand, he had said, “My dear, it is time for me to go. So let me tell you a few things. Do not go to the station unless it is very necessary. Hounds roam there, ready to pounce …. Try and remain safe, preserve yourself.” Soro was then too naïve and innocent to understand her father’s words, but now when she thinks about it all, she trembles in fear; a tiger enters her mind and tries to attack her now and then. Soro cannot believe even now that hounds exist in the same vicinity with humans. Her life did not flow on smoothly; she had to live through many a difficult situations. Soro spent a few days in the station after her father’s death and then found shelter at the house of a kind gentleman. She stayed there and helped in the household chores for a few years. Then, the lady of the house ordered her to leave. She would not allow an unclaimed young girl to stay any longer. With good food and rest, Soro was ripe and well developed. Her presence in the house meant keeping a fire ablaze. It took hardly any time for the lady to starve out Soro, so she had to leave the shelter and step out to the streets again. The station became her dwelling place. Here, the good and the bad dwell side by side. However, the familiar visage of the station changes completely during the night. Soro is very scared of the dark night. As soon as it gets dark, she covers her face and lies down. She does not want others to see her face. She has no idea about the heat and fire of her face but Ramu, Kallu, Chunni and others feel the heat of the flame. They laugh whenever they see her and try to become friends. Their eyes mirror a different look, a different hint. The other day, Ramu brought her rice from the makeshift eatery. While sitting with her, he said in a friendly manner, “Your father was extremely fond of me. We met nearly every day at the bhatikhana. He was a nice person. This work-a-day world cannot work with such forbearing and honest person. So he had to leave much too hastily.” Soro listened with her mouth wide open. One day Chunni came to her and said, “I will bring you a better meal than what Ramu had brought for you. Today I picked a pocket. Will you come with me to see this action-packed movie?” Soro’s eyes paled in fear. As she remembered her father’s words, she coiled like a centipede. Kallu called her another day to the solitary water tap and said, “Tell me if you are hungry I will bring you rice. All the rascals here are scared of me. If you listen to me, I will take you to a slum. You will be safe. No one will dare raise eyes at you.” Soro’s mind was divided three ways. If she had to stay in the close proximity of the station, she could not afford to annoy any one of the three. All of them desired closeness with her. She understood this well. Soro was confusedly worried and the prospect of her safety hovered around her mind as a priority. Soro has been sick for the last three days. Today, she was a little better. She wished to have a banana. Ramu spent an adhuli and brought one for

92  Anil Gharai her. Kallu brought an apple; Chunni gave her four biscuits and a cup of hot tea. Kallu came back as soon as it was dark. He said, “How are you feeling today?” Soro nodded, “Good.” Ramu came and said, “Tonight I will give you a full meal. Be ready. When I give a signal, come at once. Be careful, no one should see.” Soro swallowed hard, her eyes darkened with worry, she trembled inside. Chunni came about eight at night, “You have nothing to fear,” he said with a smile on his face. “Here take this soap. It is for you. Hide it. Take a bath tomorrow. We will go to see the movie, then have dosas at a restaurant.” Soro could not go. Fever was back in the early hours of the morning. She dreamt of her father. He had brought a bowl full of rice and an onion, keeping his hand on her head he was saying, “Eat child, and eat your fill. You haven’t taken rice for so many days, is it not?” As soon as Soro was well and fit enough to walk, Ramu came to take her to a hotel. After walking a little distance, Ramu stopped under a light post and said in a low voice, “Don’t mix with those two. They are vicious lechers. They will use you as they wish. Do you know they killed your father by making him drink more than is good?” Lines appeared on Soro’s forehead. She could say nothing. Leaving the main road, they took the narrow lanes that looked eerie in the dim light shade. The cry of the crickets could be heard. The environment was rather sultry. Soro asked in an undertone, “Where did you bring me? It is so uncanny.” – “You will have rice, won’t you? I am taking you to the rice- hotel.” – “How far is it? I cannot walk.” – “It is right in front.” Ramu pointed to a shanty. It was closed. Ramu brought a bottle of country liquor from somewhere and a fried preparation of vegetable. He told Soro, “It is your bad luck. No rice today. Drink this, it will help you sleep. Tomorrow I will surely bring you rice and dal.” – “I don’t drink. I am feeling nauseous.” Soro looked at Ramu, helplessly. Ramu said, “Take it, take, it will make you feel better. Your body aches will vanish. Sitting with Ramu under the clear sky, in the open air, Soro tasted cheap country liquor for the first time. After sometime, Ramu said, “Come on, we have to go.” Soro could not walk straight. She began to stagger. On reaching the abandoned primary school on the way to the station, Ramu said, “No need to go to the station, you cannot walk. So lie down here. If you go there, they will tear you to pieces, and in this drunken state you will not be able to resist them.” Soro, her eyes heavy with sleep, gave him a quick nervous glance, her heart clenched with fear. But she was too drunk to keep awake and lay down on the floor crouching.

Khadya – Khadak  93 Even in that drowsy state, she heard Ramu saying, “Kallu I did everything to get the girl here. She is mine. I will taste, eat everything alone.” – “What do you mean by alone? Shall we then watch and lick our fingers?” Chunni dived between them – “A flower on the tree is for all, not just for one. I also want to suck the nectar and inhale the fragrance. Or else there will be a scuffle.” They did not fight; they did not argue. There was an agreement. First Ramu, then Kallu, then Chunni jumped on Soro. Each claimed that she was food as she was an unprotected girl. Sora lay there like an incapacitated hen. Once or twice she protested in terrible strangling sounds but was defeated. One after the other, the three of them devoured her body and left. She lay there mauled and bruised. Later, when she recovered from her tipsy condition, she wondered how she had been able to withstand the assault of not one but the three dogs, in her weak condition. As soon as the first streak of dawn touched her skin, she walked back to the station, wobbling with shock, trembling, staggering all the way. Her whole body racked with pain. She could not touch her lower abdomen and private parts. Buli also stayed in the same station. She begged and borrowed food. People used to call her pagli. Buli listened to her narrative and then said, “So you came away, defeated. For shame! I would not have accepted defeat.” Soro had no words. Her eyes were sunken; she could not lift her eyelids. Buli went away; her sari tied below the naval. Her gate was different. Soro was thinking about the three. They would not come. They would take Buli and give her a full meal. As she waited for Buli to return, she felt the cursing wave of despair. It was very late when Buli returned – blood all over her body, a frenzied grin on her face and a faint sign of hysteria that could not be missed. A tremor of fear shot up Soro’s spine. She turned towards Buli and said softly, “Buli dear, it was too painful, wasn’t it? Why did you go to ruin yourself? Didn’t you learn a lesson from my condition?” Buli did not reply; she looked at Soro and took a sharp breath. In the ensuing silence, each stared at the other, and a tingling dread crept through Soro’s body. She said, “Come, lie down beside me here. I will help you to sleep, sister. I will stay awake and watch.” Buli said, “No tonight I will not sleep. I will celebrate. Just see what I brought.” In utter contempt, she threw a severed phallus at Soro’s feet. Soro’s voice froze in her throat; she stared in numb horror. Grinding her teeth, Buli continued, “I defeated those rascals, they defeated you today. I taught them a lesson; Kallu came first, I did not stop him but did the real job. Hearing his painful scream, the other two fled. Oh, Soro! I was

94  Anil Gharai so happy then.” Wiping her blood-stained hands in her sar, Buli called the mangy dog roaming around, “Come, take your meat, come, tu, tu, tu.” As Buli threw it, the dog took it up in a second and ran away. Buli said, “You have nothing to fear sister. Sleep, dear, sleep in peace.” Soro fell asleep without a care; she felt she was asleep in the winter night lying beside a small earthen pot, lit by charcoal.

---xxxx--Glossary Bhatikhana Dosas Hatekhori Pagli

— — — —

Country liquor shop Southern Indian spicy pancake Initiation into studies Crazy girl

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Khadya-Khadak” in Shal Patar Oshru. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2020, pp. 182–185.

7 Bhumi Kanya Anil Gharai

Abstract The story is set in a remote village in Bengal where the daily struggle for existence among the villagers determines their living conditions. Old, shrivelled and shrunken Manuburi is despised by her grandson and his wife. Though a sense of vacuum overwhelms her, she has no complaints. She begs to get food and even though she is eventually steering towards death, she declares that she will not die so easily. The story shows the grit and spirit of Manuburi, the bhumi kanya, who leads a simple and honest life in spite of the grinding poverty that is rampant in the villages of Bengal. Keywords Struggle; Death; Grit

Manuburi walked doggedly and slowly with heavy steps. As she reached Bamun pukur, she stopped there. The corners of her eyes were hard and dry. She stared vacantly at the nearly dry pond. Yet after her marriage, while walking by the edge of the pond towards the fishermen’s huts, her heart missed a beat. Her husband had laughed and teased her then, “This is nothing, if you have to see its beauty then wait for the monsoon. If you went down into the pond, the fish will peck at your feet.” The sides of the pond were lined with trees and shrubs. Standing there, one could enjoy its aroma. The call of the fox could be heard clearly. When a strong wind blew, the waves would dance. Clouds of soft light speared down from the above; bathing the water in gold; a galaxy of insects fizzed through the beams of light. People looked at it in wonder. Today, the condition of the pond is much akin to Manuburi’s condition. The sides of the pond have come off and fallen into the water. The pond is nearly dry; its sides have turned in. It is just the beginning of summer and the pond denuded of water, spreads out its shrivelled stomach for all to see. Four sides of the pond are extremely stricken with heat.

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-10

96  Anil Gharai The heat waves, like the arrows of the santhals, speed around recklessly. Bamun pukur is filled with weeds and grass. Heaving a deep sigh, Manuburi sits in the shade of the spreading tamarind tree. Her heart breaks as she looks at the dried up pond, shorn of beauty and prosperity. Looking at the pond with eyes that were once sparkling and bright, but now dull and lifeless, she feels that she bears a close resemblance with it. Even today as she was about to leave her house to move around the village, her grandson’s wife Rani said, “Why do you insist on having food? Did I not tell you there is no left over rice? Whatever I cooked yesterday is spent. Your grandson finished everything. Now if you ask me, from where can I give?” “No rice.” Manuburi feels nothing unusual about it. When was rice kept for her at all? Ever since Chandu’s wife, Rani, stepped into the house, she has become the luckless one; her fortune caught the fire of akhar. Yet with what love and fondness she had selected Rani and brought her as Chandu’s wife. Chandu was all alone, except for Manuburi. His father and mother had died when he was only four. The village folk cremated Manuburi’s daughter and son-inlaw in the same pyre, since then Manuburi has been looking after him. She is his grandmother, who brought him up with the love and care of his parents. It was indeed Manuburi’s bad luck, else why should, within a year’s time, her daughter, son-in-law, even her husband would pass away leaving her all alone in this world. She had endured unfathomable grief looking at her grandson Chandu’s face. After her husband’s death, domestic affairs reached a stand still. Had she been alone, she could have managed somehow but looking at the tender delicate face of the boy she had to step out of doors for life has to go on and living has to be made. She used to go from door to door with a basket full of fish on her head. Along went Chandu with her, as she could not leave him at home, alone. The two used to return late in the afternoon. Then, after having finished cooking and other works, the two would go for a dip in the Bamun pukur. Chandu learnt swimming, by throwing his hands and feet in the water, when he was only five. Seeing his grandmother’s struggle, he would often say, – “When I grow up, I will not let you sell fish. I will weave a net, go to the river, throw it like this and catch fish. I will save money and buy a boat. Just wait and watch, you will have no worry, no sorrow and no pain.” Alas! That was yesterday. Now, Chandu is a hefty young man with a hairy chest. Manuburi fixed his marriage after a lot of negotiations and deliberations. Chandu has forgotten all his words and vows after his marriage. Rani does not spare Manuburi even for the miniscule faults. She feels the sharp sting of Rani’s words.

Bhumi Kanya  97 At  such moments, Chandu sits with his head bent low, he does not say a word, protest is a far cry. Manuburi cries her heart out when she comes for a bath at the pond. Her turbid tears mix with the waters of the pond. She passes her days in the same tattered sari as Chandu refuses to get her a new one. He gives excuses, “Where is the money to buy you a new sari, and why do you even need one? You cannot go out to sell fish as you did earlier. Your waist is bent; you cannot even walk. How long can I keep you at home and give you food. If you cannot do anything, you can at least beg and get your food.” Rani speaks in Chandu’s favour. She says in a loud voice, “It is not easy to feed one in such hard times. Do what your grandson says. You are old, so no one will send you back without offering anything. If you go to just ten to twelve houses you can arrange your food.” Death would have been a softer relief before she heard these words. Yama did not touch her; yet, every day he pulls her to the edge of Bamun pukur. Every day when she stands there, tears fill her eyes to see the nearly dead pond. Village folk speaks about it among themselves: – “Just see the pond. Conflicts of the kinsfolk caused the pond to silt up. This made the sides to come off and fall inside. No one took care. No one understood the need for reform.” With age, Manuburi’s waist has carved in. She walks with a stick for balance, her body is covered with one pherta Kani and her dried up breasts cling to her feebled body. Earlier, though there was no milk in them, Chandu, the little one would still suck it and fall asleep. His mother who was bedridden since the time of his birth could not provide him with that maternal pleasure. Manuburi feels enervated as the sun spreads across its unbearable heat. She feels comfortable to walk under the shade. Today as she is about to go to the village, Rani says to her, “Today I will go to my father’s house.” “Boil rice for yourself, when you return from your ramblings in the village. But do not use my utensils. I have kept your earthen pots in the daoa. Don’t boil the rice begged from door to door in my pots and pans. It will bring misfortune upon us.” Manuburi, in her abrupt trepidation of an impending death, suddenly one day gave away this homestead to Chandu. Rani used to speak about the matter every now and then, and she could not ignore her capricious insistence. She went to the court and put her finger print on the legally registered agreement. She had gone with Chandu by bus, and he had lovingly fed her at the district hotel. On that day, she felt that Chandu was her grandson in the truest sense of the term. And now, the same Chandu rebukes her frequently. On rainy days, the old woman has no place inside. Just like the goats who huddle together in the daoa, Manuburi lies shrunk and shrivelled.

98  Anil Gharai Inside the room, Rani giggles and laughs as she nestles close to Chandu who whispers, “If only the old woman would die, can’t even sit and sleep in peace for her.” Rani says immediately and with conviction. – “I don’t think this winter will pass. Keep aside money for the cremation expenses. If she dies at an ill-suited time, we will be in trouble.” All the words reach Manuburi, words like the sting of the scorpion; it burns and reduces her body as if into ashes. She does not wish to live anymore. She would have died long ago, only the hope of seeing the child that would grow in Rani’s womb keeps her alive. She has told Rani quite a few times about the hope she has been cherishing but Rani hardly pays any heed to it and walks away with utter disgust. Manuburi looks tired after moving around the village. The dust from the road has reached her knees. In the dented bowl, on top of the rice, there are as bright as the stars, a few coins. She feels thirsty with her throat drying up rapidly. The scorching heat waves have taken its toll. Her eyes are burning so are her ears. But Rani’s words are much fierier than the blazing rays of the sun, she said to herself. Even after returning home, there is no respite… Rani, if she had been at home, would have said, “Go grandmother, chop firewood and bring in a few.” – “Can this body chop firewood, dear?” Manuburi would say hesitatingly, “Give me a broom I will sweep the dry leaves from the bamboo chimp.” – “There is no strength in the fire of dry leaves. They are like you, your body. Once it catches fire, it will turn to ashes in no time.” Manuburi recalls Rani’s poisonous words time and again. She cannot gather enough strength to walk further. After reaching Pakurtala, keeping her walking stick in front of her, she sits down under the shade of the tree. Opening her mouth, she starts breathing like the Katla fish. Charan Moira owns a sweetmeat shop at Pakurtala. Seeing Manuburi’s harassed and worn-out condition, he comes forward with quick steps and says, “O sister, does anyone go out begging in this heat? Your Chandu earns quite well these days. Can he not look after you and your needs?” “If he cannot, then who can?” Manuburi tries to hide facts. “Then why do you go around begging?” Manuburi says nothing; she feels muddled within her own words, when Charan Moira questions her. In trying to justify herself, her words, like juicy bubbles of Kocha, are stuck in her throat. From her eyes, roll down a shower of water, her dry lips quiver again and again. She does not wish to survive in this rude world. Not anymore.

Bhumi Kanya  99 With the sun above her head, she walks in hot haste to the bank of the pond. Her sari is falling off her shoulder; she walks right towards the middle of the pond and stands in knee deep water with her dried-up breasts uncovered. This world does not have water enough so that she could drown herself and her sorrows in it. Tears overflow from her eyes. Her body is dazzling in the heat; her greedy loose flesh gets tight. Rani had asked her to boil rice in the earthen pot before going to her father’s place. Manuburi does not throw away the rice in the pond. Cupping her hands together, she filled the bowl with water. Rice from ten houses gets wet with the water of Bamun pukur. She will survive, yes, she will, even if she does not get rice from one single house. Why will she die? Now, she takes a dip and comes up. Holding her stick in a tight grip, she claims out loud for the pond to hear, “I will not die, my dear. I will not. My life is not fragile like yours. If one door shuts, how does it matter? There are many avenues open for me. Women are like the proverbial cat with nine lives- very difficult to exterminate.”

---xxxx--Glossary Akhar Daoa Gyatibad Kani Kocha Moira Pakurtala Pherta Santhals Yama

— Oven, stove — Verandah — Enmity among kin or folk — Rag — Yam — Seller of sweets — Shade of fig trees — To wear a cloth by doubling it — Members of a large indigenous group — Hindu God of Death

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Bhumi Kanya” in Shal Patar Oshru. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2020, pp. 130–133.

III

Poems

8 Hope Anil Gharai

I have throttled destructiveness and brought hope near the sky. When the poor dalit is helpless red will be the dusty road. Birds in utter pain will fall on the scorched surface of red dust. Once again heart-rending lamentation and The widows’ veil will rouse and stir the land. In the faint rays of the sun, why do you paint the yawning face of the paddy fields, the burnt sores and bullet wounds? Don’t you like the beauty of the putush flowers? In your simple innocent eyes why do you apply the awe-inspiring kajol? Why do you place explosives under the cool shade of the chhatim tree? Having lost the power of fertility The depressed time has taken up firearms; its eyes are the bed of lightning and thunder, Painted the leaves of trees with the blood of violence and despair…. Having proved everything an illusion Will you come, Hara-Gauri? Light, in the rain soaked night, will plant paddy seedling in the ovulating fields.

Glossary Chhatim — Hara-Gauri —

An evergreen tree commonly called a devil tree Lord Shiva and Goddess Durga

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-12

104  Anil Gharai Kajal Putush

— Collyrium — Common Lantana

Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Sobuj Katha” in Gham Oshru Agun. Kharagpur: Turjo Prakashan, 2010, pp. 43–44.

9 Life Anil Gharai

Blood floats in the pool of life The life of the fragrant water lilies is now Poisonous; in the depths of life’s diversity floats the nearly dead stream of festivals. Standing beside the pool, someone lets the lament of abysmal void, drift on. Black clouds drench the hovels. The commotion of fire and water spreads all over. A few, like the anchored ships, hangs pictures of this dark and dismal world in a garland of nocturnal stupor. They believe even oceans do not have water enough as the sweat and tears of a human body. Melodies touch the fissures of the rib-cage like magic; the lyrics echo and fill the action filled breeze. Fruitless, impotent time, by its touch Stirs the busy ants in the graveyard. Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Jiban Japon” in Gham Oshru Agun. Kharagpur: Turjo Prakashan, 2010, pp. 44–45.

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-13

10 Compliance Anil Gharai

Sweat knows the language of pain River knows the pain of landslides; lines formed by tears, become a river, sometimes. Sandy bed of destruction in this bodyWho knows at which turn of life, waits God? Where blossoms bright red flowers? Where stays awake in the rib cage the slow dripping of the river? Every moment waits for the battle to begin. By the rhythmic beat on the shanks, trembles the land. Light struggles to make known the secret play of the ruined and wasted insect. A strange hunger gnaws at the body No more can the eyes give birth to tears. The lotus, in some secluded corner of the heart will fall by the tremors of the ventricle. Yet, waits one with the doggedness of a dried and shriveled log. Blood knows no defeat, so the arrangements of the untimely awakening Inscribed on rocks are the words of oath. Its acceptance will not be subsumed easily when the thin line of discussion ends. It will be known to whom belongs the ocean- whose clay, whose sand? From the ocean of hunger, you, secured and Sheltered, will rise. You are a puppet; you have the moonlight life-span. Sweat knows how to make the parijat blossom.

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-14

Compliance  107 Glossary Parijat — A heavenly flower Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Grohonjogyota” in Gham Oshru Agun. Kharagpur: Turjo Prakashan, 2010, pp. 59–60.

11 Hunger and Melody Anil Gharai

In the embrace of edible spinach wakes up the embankment, under the cool shade of tall trees sleeps childhood. This water, this pond is the safe caveOur natural protection. Round the pond insects sing songs night long When fishes jumped out of the water, mother would dream sweet dreams: the small fishes would soon grow up and in the extreme heat would gasp And gulp in some beautiful dawn fishes- as bright as silver Would lie in the fisherman’s net… Mother would count the money In this house, money is the strange sunNo less is the pond; father while pouring water at the roots of the Manasa tree would mutter: “All fishes sold out, stomach is such a ravenous demon; No more can be seen the frolicsome movement of the fishes.” In father’s eyes there is pain of the falling star, on his face, helplessness. Poverty and scarcity would eclipse a village, a town, a province… In homes where scarcity rules every day, even there floats sweet music In the sweet humming, mother would see the current of silver moonlight flooding the tranquil surroundings. Pushing aside all pain and poverty, mother would give a flute: blow into it, play the music of life, she would sayAnd in this manner starchy rice would roll on in the family I was the joyful sky. In the ponds, poison and enmity floated up DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-15

Hunger and Melody  109 Pond does not know how to protest; like the fish lying on its back, lies the overarching sky. In the scales of each dead fish is written the story of rice and music. Translated into English by Anuradha Sen Originally published as “Bhatgalpo aar Surkatha” in Gham Oshru Agun. Kharagpur: Turjo Prakashan, 2010, pp. 51–52.

IV

Critical Essays on Anil Gharai

12 Dalit Literature Shyamal Kumar Pramanik

Abstract Dalit Literature is a distinctive part of Indian literature. The present chapter tries to portray a comprehensive history of Dalit Literature along with its essential features. In order to find out the origin of Dalit literature, the chapter highlights the Dalit Movements in nineteenth- and twentieth-century India. It shows how Dr. Ambedkar was instrumental in organising these movements and acted as the chief inspiration to the Dalit writers. Since Dalit writers, who formed Dalit Panther Movement, were influenced by the Black Panther Movement, a brief comparative discussion on Black American Literature and Indian Dalit Literature is also included here. Finally, the chapter vividly portrays the history and development of Dalit Literature in Maharashtra and West Bengal. Keywords Dalit Literature; Dalit Movement; Marathi Dalit Literature; Bengali Dalit Literature

The inclusion of Dalit Literature opens a new chapter in contemporary literature of India and is of utmost importance. Its origin can be traced back to the Age of Buddhism and is rooted in Gautam Buddha’s critique of the excesses of Hinduism. At the very onset of the discussion on Dalit Literature, one must enquire the etymological meaning of the word “Dalit”, and who, after all, fall under the category of Dalits. The word “Dalit” has come from the word dalan, meaning repression. Within the rubric of Indian society, all those who have been perpetually humiliated, loathed, tagged as untouchables, and have been restrained from any form of social mobility, are referred to as Dalits. Religion has been diplomatically utilised to propagate this oppression. The ones to carry out this form of oppression have been placed on a higher pedestal owing to their privileges guaranteed by the socio-religious norms of the society. Such groups constantly keep hindering the Dalit’s strife towards

DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-17

114  Shyamal Kumar Pramanik self-advancement. As a part of the Varnasrama system, the Dalits have been compelled to live under miserable conditions owing to their status of being the antaja varna. As a result of which, the Dalits have been rendered an ineffably claustrophobic space to survive in. Superstitions have added onto the problem. A sense of unrelenting servitude has been ingrained into their psychology which regulates their everyday. Pashupatiprasad Mahato, in his article “Cultural Silence and Nationality Formation: A Case Study of Jharkhand Movement in India” has commented – “The consequences of dispossession lead them to extreme poverty, exploitation oppression and dehumanisation culminating into cultural silence that debilitate and destroy not only personality but also cultural excellence and creative genius of the ethnic groups”.1 Dalit Movements and Dalit Literature in Nineteenthand Twentieth-Century India Jyotirao Phule, known as the father of Dalit Literature and the Dalit Movement in nineteenth-century India, established the first school for the “untouchables” in the year 1851, in Pune. In 1873, he founded the “Satyashodhak Samaj” for building up resistance against caste discrimination. His famous book Golamgiri was published in the same year. Later, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar (1891–1956) helped in taking the movement to the national level. Throughout his life, Ambedkar stood up against Hinduism and its Manuvadi system. He had written books like Caste in India: Their Mechanism, Genesis and Development (1915), Annihilation of Caste (1936) and Who Were the Shudras (1948). The first conference on Dalit Literature was called for in December 1956. But it was postponed due to Dr. Ambedkar’s demise. The first symposium of Dalit writers was organised in 1958, in Mumbai. Annabhau Sathe, Baburao Bagul, Shankarrao Kharat and other Marathi Dalit writers were present at the meeting. Dalit Literature, however, took another decade to gain institutional prominence. In 1968, a magazine named “Asmitadarsha” was published from Aurangabad in Maharashtra which eventually became the preface to Dalit Literature. The detailed discussion about the definition of Dalit Literature, its history and its identity in the “Marathaowara” magazine (Diwali issue), 1969, marked the beginning of Dalit Literature. Inspired by the “Black Panther” movement of America, Namdeo Dhasal, Arjun Dangle and Daya Pawar initiated the Dalit Panther Movement on 9th July, 1972. Despite being a literary movement, the Dalit Panthers took up political and cultural initiatives that were inspired by the Ambedkarite philosophy. In 1972 itself, Namdeo Dhasal published his anthology of poetry, called Golpitha, which went on to become a milestone literary achievement of Dalit Literature. Through his language and unique self-revelation, Dalit Literature began to be distinctly identified – all writings by the Dalits, for the Dalits, about the Dalits and pertaining to the Dalit predicament began to be known as Dalit

Dalit Literature  115 Literature. While on the one hand, the Dalit writers rejected the language of the bhadraloks, on the other, they initiated a revolt against Hinduism, a religion that rendered them the status of untouchables and marked them as polluted. For this very reason, they refused to acknowledge the abhangas of the fourteenth-century Mahar poet Chokamela as a part of the Dalit literary heritage. The Dalit writers embraced the language of Black literature, the language of the Dalit bastis, that of the criminal world and red-light areas. Through such acceptance and refusals, Dalit Literature went on to become the Indian expression of avant-garde literary form. A poem by Namdeo Dhasal can be cited as an example: In this everyday prostitution, not a pavement is left open for us We are so tremendously poor that every breath feels nauseating Even dirt fails to satiate our hunger Every new day sustains them through bribery Not a sigh gets released during the day’s abundance And we break into fragments from fragments.2 Within Indian Literature, the Dalit writers were the ones who accorded an independent status to self-writing, just like the forms of poetry or akhyan. Previously, autobiographical writings were not discussed as an independent genre. Dalit writers have made autobiography an indispensable component of their literature. Daya Pawar’s Baluta and Lakshman Mane’s Upara have gained international recognition. Sharankumar Limbale’s Akkarmashi is considered a noteworthy autobiography in Indian Literature. The Dalit existences of these Dalit writers are entirely personal and subjective. They recorded their individual everyday experiences in writing with a certain sense of Dalit subjectivity. By acknowledging this aspect of autobiographical writing in mainstream narratives, Dalit writers have added a new dimension to Indian literature which was influenced by the Western modernity of the 1920s and 1930s. Dalit poets have also simultaneously given birth to a new kind of poetry by deconstructing the romanticism prevalent in Indian literature. Like a dumb animal We spend our life mortgaged. … In the times of the Ramrajya, Rama had used his sword on Shambuka And we kept our eyes shut. … The fragmented quilts of our life Wash them not all at once. Naked that we already are Do not unclothe us further.3

116  Shyamal Kumar Pramanik Characteristics of Dalit Literature Like Black Literature, Dalit Literature, too, has three main characteristics. According to Frantz Fanon, the characteristics of Black Literature are assimilation of Black consciousness, ethnic discovery and revolt. Similarly, the three fundamental tendencies noted in Dalit Literature are suffering, revolt and negation. Dr. Pushpa Bhave, in her article “Dalit Literature in Marathi”, wrote, “Suffering has been cited as a meaningful root of many artistic creators down the ages. But when the dalit literature refers to suffering, it is the suffering created by human system of varnas, a suffering they share with other dalits and dalits only”.4 Richard Wright had written in his 1937 essay “Blueprint for Negro Writing”5 that Black writers should not write for the whites. They should rather specifically write for the Blacks. They must take up the responsibility of formulating a new doctrine of life, and should also gain the strength to lead the Black community. The Dalit writers, in a similar way, need to embrace these responsibilities. The notable characteristics of Dalit Literature are (1) experiences of suffering born out of oppression, (2) revolt against such oppression, (3) negation of a caste-based Hindu social set-up and its scriptures, (4) ethnic discovery and (5) creation. Apart from these, some other features of Dalit Literature can be noted as (1) Dalit Literature speaks about social change. (2) It establishes a Dalit way of life and sets forth its ideals. (3) Dalit Literature is an iconic form of protest. (4) The ideologies of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar are ingrained in Dalit Literature. His philosophy insists that the progress of society occurs with the progress of science. Dalit Literature is revolutionary and criticises several tenets of Hindu literature and culture. (5) Dalit Literature promises to carry out all social responsibilities and champions Dalit cultural identity. Black American Literature and Indian Dalit Literature In the twentieth century, Indian Dalit Literature has particularly been influenced by Afro-American Black Literature. Daya Pawar has written on the history of Dalit Literature how Professor M.N Wankhede and Professor Janardan Waghmare had introduced the tradition of Black Literature to the Marathi readers. The writings of James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison and other Black writers helped in the awakening of Marathi as well as an Indian Dalit consciousness. Black literature remains an indispensable part of American literature. Alex Haley’s Roots: The Saga of an American Family, Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple and Toni Morrison’s Beloved are all remarkable creations of Black Literature. Toni Morrison’s writings are imbued with feminist and Black perspectives. Toni Morrison has spoken about the four phases of her life: (1) A period of anger. (2) A period of self-discovery. (3) A period of celebratory use of ­culture – during this time, the quest for one’s own culture begins in whatsoever difficult

Dalit Literature  117 processes that may exist. Professor Edgar Wright has called this, “conscious experiment as well as unconscious influence”. The writer tries to traverse both these avenues to figure out the subject matter of her writings. In the process, she discovers the ancient and valuable treasures of her fragmented culture. Through these experiences, the writer becomes invincible. (4) And finally an arrival at a conceptual notion of the ethnic experience. Marathi Dalit Literature Marathi Dalit writers are the torchbearers of modern Indian Dalit Literature. Namdeo Dhasal’s “Konwara” (claustrophobic birthplace), Daya Pawar’s “Uttam Gumpha” (echoes in the cave), Yashwant Manohar’s “Utkhanan”, Keshav Meshram’s “Dastakhat”, Prakash Yadav’s “Shavani Halate Aahe”, Arjun Dangle’s “Maqbandi” and J.B Pawar’s “Suranga” are all notable works of Indian as well as Marathi Dalit Literature. Annabhau Sathe, Shankar Rao Kharat, Baburao Bagul, Daya Pawar, Arjun Dangle and others have led the path of Indian as well as Marathi Dalit Literature. In Marathi Dalit Literature, plays, like akhyan and poetry, have occupied a distinct place. Of these, notable and controversial ones include Premanand Gajvee’s Ghetabhar Pani, Tan Majuri. Among the playwrights, Datta Bhagat is another notable figure. Among the plays written by him, Thange Rabrajjyat Aaje and Kalo Kachha Garbhat are of importance. The category of essays is another significant genre in Marathi Dalit Literature. It is also unique in terms of its subjects. Arun Kamble’s “Ramayan Teel Sanskriti Sangharsha” and Gangadhar Panta Bhane’s “Buddha Tatwa Nancha Probhab” are notable mentions. In literary criticism, Ratnakar Daanbir and Tarachaand Bandekar are important names. Dr. Gangadhar Pantawane’s “Ashmitadarsha” remains a widely known Marathi Dalit periodical. Bangla Dalit Literature The Dalit literary movement in Bangla began long after the Marathi Dalit literary movement. However, the roots of Dalit Literature in Bengal can be traced back to the formative days of Bangla language. The Charyapada was composed between tenth century BC and the twelfth century. The composers of Charyapada were Buddhists by religion. Many of them were from the lower castes, from the communities of dom, kapali, etc. While some Charyapadas depict the everyday of the lower castes, other padas are charged with anti-Vedic sentiments. In nineteenth-century Bengal, various lower-caste communities-initiated movements for their ascension within several spheres, including those of social, political, economic and education. A new wave of movement for social reform and spread of education could also be noticed in communities of the Namashudras, Rajbongshi, Poundra, Haari, etc. In history, this particular wave is identified as the Self-respect Movement. During such a time, literary

118  Shyamal Kumar Pramanik movements emerged within the Dalit communities of Bengal. Jatichandrika (1887) was the first book on Dalit Literature published during this phase. It was written by Srimanta Laskar. The next noteworthy text was Jati-Bibek (1891). The writer of this text was Benimadhab Halder. He was a notable social reformer. Srimanta Laskar and Benimadhab Haldar were both notable personalities of the Poundra community. The role of the Matua movement is also significant within the context of Dalit literary movement in Bengal. The leaders of this movement were Harichand Thakur (1812–1874) and Guruchand Thakur (1847–1937). Sri Sri Harililamrito, written by Tarakchandra Sarkar, got published in 1916. In 1921, Jatiyo Jagaran by Raicharan Biswas was published. Many poems from this anthology voiced anti-casteist sentiments. Raicharan Sardar (1876–1942), one of the leaders of social and educational reform movements within the Poundra community, had written several texts. His book Diner Atmakahini ba Satyapariksha is the first autobiography in Bangla Dalit Literature. Another important proponent of the Dalit literary movement was Mahendranath Karan (1886–1928), from the Poundra community, who was an excellent writer, historian, and freedom fighter. In 1919, he published A Short History and Ethnology of the Cultivating Pods, and in 1927 his Khejuri Bandarer Itihash was published. Alongside, his other notable works were “Banglar Jati Samasya” (essay) and Durbhikkher Gaan (poetry anthology). Another important writer from the Poundra community is Manindranath Mandal (1880–1943), who was a social worker, writer and freedom fighter. His works were Arati (poetry anthology), “Bangiya Janasangh” (essay) and Bhabaghure (play). The Nabayug Sahitya O Sanskriti Parishad was established in the year 1976. It was patronised by Naresh Chandra Das, Sharat Baruri and Nakul Mallick. The first Dalit Writers’ Conference was organised in 1987, in Machhlandapur, North 24 Paraganas, by the “Bangiya Lekhak Parishad”. The Secretary of Bangiya Lekhak Parishad was writer Nakul Mallick and it was presided by Bimal Biswas. Litterateur Kapil Krishna Thakur was also associated with this council. The “Bangla Dalit Sahitya Sangstha” was established in 1992. Its foremost secretary was Amar Biswas and Professor Jagadbandhu Biswas was its first president. The “Bangla Dalit Sahitya Sangstha” had formulated the following in its constitution – (1) Our aim is to enrich Dalit Literature and traditions. (2) It is our job to resist blind faith, superstitions, unscientific and inhuman social discrimination and injustice, and achieve equality, independence and fraternity through the mediums of literature and creativity. (3) To announce accolades in the name of important Dalit personalities, and to award the deserving candidates for special contribution in the fields of Dalit art, literature and culture. (4) To establish information repositories and build libraries for the benefit of Dalit writers, readers and scholars, and thereby foster their advancement. (5) To rewrite history and the cultural past. (6) Work towards the eradication of illiteracy by endorsing conventional and non-conventional

Dalit Literature  119 measures. (7) Publish newspapers, books and periodicals that would contribute in the emancipation of the Dalits. (8) To make the illiterate Dalits from remote villages aware about their rights and duties through audio-visual aids and musical performances. (9) To liberate them from their preoccupation over a fixed destiny, and to make them self-confident. The periodical Chaturtha Duniya, published as the preface to Bangla Dalit Literature, gained popularity right from its first issue. Various powerful writers like Achintya Biswas, Manoharmouli Biswas, Kapil Krishna Thakur, Dhurjati Naskar, Bimalendu Halder, Kalyani Thakur and others have been associated with it as its editor. Dalit Kantha (Dalit Voice), edited by Nakul Mallick, was an important attempt owing to its content and perspective. The monthly magazine Adal Badal, edited by Bimal Biswas, and the bimonthly magazine Ajker Ekalabya, edited by Basanta Kumar Mandal, have contributed significantly towards the development of a Dalit consciousness. Neel Akash edited by Sukriti Biswas and published in Kolkata, Bahujan Darpan, edited by Ranajit Sikdar, and Jagaran edited by Subodh Samaddar, published in Thakurpukur, have all played important roles in the Dalit literary movement. Of the other notable magazines and periodicals of the 1990s, Utsav edited by Gurupada Mandal published from Ranaghat, Atmanirikhhan edited by Govinda Shounda published from Digha and Laya Surath edited by Narayan Mahato published from Purulia deserve mention. Among the Dalit periodicals, Chhianobbui edited by Sukriti Ranjan Biswas, Akhon Takhon edited by Manju Bala, Palikrit edited by Malay Biswas, Pushpa Bairagya and Gopal Biswas’s Surya, Neer edited by Kalyani Thakur, Nirbhik Sangbad edited by Ranjit Sikdar, Pranab Sarkar’s Lok and Kapilkrishno Thakur’s Nikhil Bharat deserve mention. In later times, the periodical Poundra Samachar, published from the North 24 Paraganas, played an important role in the Dalit Movement. Professor Sanatkumar Naskar and Dilip Gayen were the editors of Poundra Samachar during the initial days of its publication. The periodical Hatiyagarh, that was previously edited by Binod Sardar and Partharathi Mandal under the tutelage of researcher Dhurjati Naskar and later had Krishnakishore Midya as its editor, also actively contributed to the Dalit Movement. Ranajit Sikdar, through his genuine efforts of translating texts by and on Ambedkar, helped in the transmission of Ambedkarite philosophies. Dr. Gunadhar Barman is a noteworthy name for his initial research practices on Ambedkar. They were followed by the likes of Swapan Biswas, Dr. Pashupatinath Mahato, Pramodbaran Biswas, Dr. Achintya Biswas and Manoharmouli Biswas, all of whom contributed in the expansion of Ambedkarite thoughts and ideologies. Their poignant and rational research, presented in sharp language, facilitated in enriching Dalit Literature with an equally poignant Dalit consciousness. Essays like that of Manoharmouli Biswas’s “Dalit Sahityer Digboloy”, “Juktibadi Bharatbarsha: Ekti Oitijhher Sandhan”, Swapan Biswas’s “Bharatiya Samaj Unnayaner Dhara: Dr. Ambedkar”, Pramodbaran Biswas’s “Valmiki Ramayane Ram o Dalit Samaj”, Shyamal

120  Shyamal Kumar Pramanik Kumar Pramanik’s “Poundradesh o Jaatir Itihash”, Sukritiranjan Biswas’s “Prasanga: Dalit Mukti Andolan”, Sunil Das’s “Rarh er Adim Bauri Janagosthi ebong tader Prachin Boudhhatantra Dhamma”, Bimalendu Halder’s “Dakshin Chabbish Parganar Katthabhasha o Lok Sankskritir Upakaran”, Dhurjati Naskar’s “Sundarbaner Loksahitya o Bichitra Rachana” , Chittaranjan Biswas’s “Balay Hinduder Barnabinyash”, Jagadish Mandal’s “Mahapran Jogendranath o Babasaheb Ambedkar”, Shantiranjan Biswas’s “E Desher Rajneeti o Bahujan Samaj”, Dr. Anilranjan Biswas’s “Tarka Bitarka Kutarka”, “Ganatantra o Sangrakhhan: Deshe Bideshe”, among others, helped in elevating the status of Dalit Literature. Two collections of essays, important from a historical perspective, are Dalit Sahitya edited by Nitish Biswas and Guruchand Thakur o Antaja Banglar Nabajagaran edited by Kapil Krishna Thakur. Narottam Halder’s Gangaridi: Itihash o Sanskritir Upakaran, Dr. Birat Bairagya’s Matua Sahitya Parikrama and Dr. Nandadulal Mohanta’s Dalit: Matua Sahitya o Andolan are all results of relentless research work carried out in the 1980s and 1990s of twentieth century. Poetry has been written the most for the establishment of a new set of values and for instigating Dalit emancipation. The name of Basantakumar Mondal leads this list. Apart from him, notable mentions are Achintya Biswas’s Bidhibaddha Shatarkikaran and Charu Baurir Gaan; Monoharmouli Biswas’s Taarer Kanna Titikhha and Bibikto Uthone Ghor; Shyamal Kumar Pramanik’s Kokhono Akash Kokhono Maati, Shono, Eikhane Rekhe Gelam and Aguner Barnamala; Anil Sarkar’s Bratyajaner Kabita; Kapil Krishna Thakur’s Shoro Pathor and Ki Sundor Onko. Important names include poets like Nikhilesh Ray, Susnato Jana, Utthanpada Bijoli and Panchanan Das, and poets from the Santhal community to have elevated the status of Dalit poetry are Marshal Hembram, Manjubala, Kalyani Thakur, Kalipada Moni and others. The genre of short stories in Bangla Dalit Literature is also quite enriched. The veracity of lived experiences, everyday life-realisations and the linguistic prowess have contributed in the development of this genre in Dalit Literature. Jatin Bala’s Gandir Badhe Bhangan, Goutam Ali’s Jotugriher Chhai, Bimalendu Haldar’s Akashmati Mon, Nakur Mallick’s Nirbachito Galpo, Shyamal Kumar Pramanik’s Khili Paaner Meye, Kapil Krishna Thakur’s “Onno Ihudi”, Sunil Kumar Das’s Dalit Manusher Galpo – mostly published in the last decade of the twentieth century, are all notable compilations of Dalit short stories. Other important short story writers include the likes of Brajen Mallick, Goubindo Soundo, Manoharmouli Biswas, Jaya Goyala, Utpalendu Mandal, Prasad Mondal, Pranab Sarkar, Panchanan Das and Nakul Mallick. Drama is also one of the weapons of Dalit Literature. Raju Das is a distinguished playwright of the Bangla Dalit literary movement. Plays written by him such as Bachar Moto Bachte Chai, Chuni Kotal Bolchhi and Angikar have been successfully performed. The other notable playwrights are Birendranath Purakayit, Harshavardhan Chowdhury and Samudra Biswas

Dalit Literature  121 who wrote plays like Surpanakha and Maran-Phand. Draupadira by Birendranath Purakayit, and Khandab-Dahan and Shesh Proshno by Harshavardhan Chowdhury are also significant plays of Dalit Literature. Several novels have also been written within the corpus of Bangla Dalit Literature. Titas Ekti Nadir Naam is a classic by Adwaita Mallabarman. Other notable novels are Ujaantalir Upakatha by Kapil Krishna Thakur, Pitrigon by Samarendra Baidya, Kolar Mandash by Brajen Mallick and Noonbari and Mukuler Gondho by Anil Gharai. Besides, Subarnarenu Subarnarekha by Nalini Bera, Amanushik by Manoranjan Byapari and Basat Hariye Jaye and Baikanthapurer Katha by Shyamal Kumar Pramanik are exemplary works of Dalit Literature. In the novel Badaboner Bongshodhor by renowned researcher Dhurjati Laskar, the lived experiences of marginalised communities from Badabon, in South 24 Parganas, have been explored. Within the extensive literary space of Bangla Dalit Literature, many novels have been written which are autobiographies or are based on autobiographical elements. The first published autobiography in Bangla Dalit Literature is Diner Atmakahini ba Satyapariksha by Mahatma Raicharan Sardar. Texts published later that deserve mention are Akjon Daliter Atmakatha by Manoranjan Sarkar, Ek Rickshaw-walar Atmakatha by Raju Das, Shikor Chhera Jibon by Jatin Bala, Amar Bhubane Ami Bneche Thaki by Manoharmouli Biswas, Itibritte Chandal Jibon by Manoranjan Byapari and Bhanga Bera-r Panchali by Lily Halder. Notes 1 Pashupatiprasad Mahato read his article, “Cultural Silence and Nationality Formation: A Case Study of Jharkhand Movement in India” in the conference entitled Development Not Destruction held in Bokaro on 26–28 October, 1990. 2 The lines mentioned are from Namdeo Dhasal’s poem “Infinite Grace”. 3 Lines are taken from Marathi Dalit poet Anuradha Gurav’s Marathi poem, “Innati”translated into English “Request” by Sylvia Martinez, Vimal Thorat and Eleanor Zelliot. The poem was included in “Images of Women in Maharashtrian Literature and Religion” edited by Anne Feldhans and published by New York: Suny Press in 1996. Debesh Roy included this poem in the “Introduction” of his in his edited book Dalit published by Sahitya Akademi in 1997. 4 Pushpa Bhave read her article “Dalit Literature in Marathi” in the conference entitled Development Not Destruction held in Bokaro on 26–28 October, 1990. 5 “Blueprint for Negro Writing” by Richard Wright published in 1937. https://thirtiesculture.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/wright-blueprint.pdf. Accessed on 27th April, 2023.

References Ambedkar, B.R. Annihilation of Caste. Delhi: General Press, 2021. ———. Castes in India: Their Mechanism, Genesis and Development. Charleston, SC: Nabu Press, 2011. Bhave, Pushpa, “Dalit Literature in Marathi.” Development Not Destruction. Bokaro City Organised Conference, 26–28 October 1990. Lecture.

122  Shyamal Kumar Pramanik Biswas, Achintya, “Dalit Sahitya: Silpakaron o Nandantotto.” Bangla Dalit Sahitya Organization, 24 December 1993. Lecture. Biswas, Manohar Mouli. Dalit Sahityer Digboloy. Kolkata: Dr. B.R. Ambedkar Prakashani, 1992. Dhasal, Namdeo. Golpitha. Mumbai: Popular Prakashan, 2017. Mahato, Pashupatiprasad. “Cultural Silence and Nationality Formation: A Case Study of Jharkhand Movement in India.” Development Not Destruction. Bokaro City Organised Conference, 26–28 October. 1990. Lecture. Patwane, Gangadhar, “New Development in Dalit Culture: Evolving a New Identity.” Centre for Social Studies, 18–20 Febraury. 1988. Lecture. Phule, Jyotirao. Gulamgiri. Scotts Valley, CA: Createspace Independent Publishing Platform, 2017. Print.

Translated from the original Bengali into English by Suddhadeep Mukherjee.

13 Women, Oppression and Emancipation A Study of Anil Gharai’s Select Short Stories Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar (Authors) Abstract One of the very few Bengali Dalit authors who had the chance to observe the oppressed up close was Anil Gharai. The Dalit literary movement in Bangla, however, has only just started to gain traction with the appearance of writers like Gharai and the widely held belief that Bengal had not had a Dalit movement and that there was no Dalit literature in Bangla deserving of its name has been definitively disproved. His tales effectively depict the lives of those who have endured exploitation for many generations and are still around to uphold the traditions of their ancestors. In his writings, he has shown the oppressive caste system as well as the suppressive tormenting patriarchal structure of the society. Through many of his short stories, he has rightly presented the pitiable plight of the women who have been subjugated and are forced to remain marginalised in the maledominated, caste and class-divided society. He has made women protagonists in many of his short stories and presented them not merely as sufferers but also offered them a voice to protest against all sorts of injustice based on caste and gender. This chapter will try to deal with some of his major short stories like “Kalketu”, “Jihba”, “Pindi”, “Pokaparban” and “Bindiya” with female protagonists to show how the author has dealt with the issues of women oppression, their resistance and how he has contributed in the emancipation of women of the socially and economically weaker sections of the society. Keywords Women; Marginalised; Oppression; Resistance; Emancipation

Anil Gharai, being a Dalit writer, has a history of writing on the oppressed and disenfranchised section of our society. He writes about the segment of society who are left without a voice. He is an honest and dedicated writer who always strives for their upliftment by highlighting their sordid conditions in a caste-ridden, gender-biased society. Gharai portrays this terrible, dehumanised world in his writings which strike a highly original balance DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-18

124  Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar between life and literature. His writings are now regarded as a medium that can help people understand the realities of modern-day India. According to Sayantan Dasgupta, Anil Gharai along with other notable contemporary Bengali Dalit writers like “Kapil Krishna Thakur, Jatin Bala, Nalini Bera, Afsar Ahmed, Achintya Biswas, Shyamal Kumar Pramanik and many other Dalit authors have challenged the literary Brahminism of Bengal” (Gharai x). The stories he has penned down highlight the status of the underprivileged and the oppressed strata of society, giving voice to the voiceless and bringing attention to people whose suffering has been rendered invisible in the public imagination. His women protagonists, whom he has introduced in many of his short stories, are versatile in nature based on their different ways of oppression and resistance. His presentations justify the claim of Gopal Guru, “The caste factor also has to be taken into account which makes sexual violence against dalit or tribal women much more severe in terms of intensity and magnitude” (Guru 2548). Anil Gharai’s narrative story “Kalketu”1 is all about defending a poor rural girl’s self-respect and self-honour. In the story, the author illustrates how our society treats a girl whose father has passed away and who has been dumped away by her husband, and who is thus thought to be simply available to everyone. It is in this context that the author presents the character of Fullara who has a craving for self-respect and appears to be a rebel against the existing thought process of the society. The protagonist of this story Fullara was very fond of her father who had been very affectionate to her. Though poor, as a father, he had the desire to nurture his daughter well and used to treat her like a princess. Her father wished to make grand arrangements in her marriage ceremony but fate had some other plans. His sudden death made Fullara’s life a disaster. She had to cope with the situation and her plight turned out to be miserable. It was at that point of time that her uncle arranged for her marriage at an early age to get rid of her responsibility. He was not even bothered to fix the match carefully since a few days later it got exposed that Fullara’s husband was a drunkard. However, on the day of her marriage ceremony, the memory of her father and his promising words upset her so much that she started weeping and opened out her heart to her husband. However, he appeared to be unfeeling and got enraged by her emotional words regarding her father. Fullara got into more trouble when within a week she found her partner to be a stolid and drunken crackhead who was deadly addicted to ganja.2 Prior to their union, her husband informed her that he works in an office at some superior post where several co-workers refer to him as “Babu”3 and occasionally they also bribe him. But after the wedding, she realised that he was a liar and her uncle got her married to this drunkard out of his financial avarice. It was exposed that her uncle didn’t hesitate to destroy the life of Fullara only for some monetary benefit from a drunkard. From this narrative, the treatment of women and the attitude of the patriarchal society become conspicuous which doesn’t want to accept women as human beings.

Women, Oppression and Emancipation  125 Due to her shattered marriage, Fullara was compelled to get back to her father’s house but that does not guarantee her mental peace and social honour. The author shows that the patriarchal society now acts in full swing to oppress her. She is branded as a lady who has been discarded by her husband and it is obvious that our society does not accept these sorts of girls wholeheartedly. Since she has been treated as discarded by her husband, everyone tries to take the opportunity of her being alone. This is the attitude of the society that has been represented by the writer in this context. But Fullara deals with all these problems courageously and even in one incident reports to the police about a village leader, Gobinda, who didn’t allow her to cast her vote by herself. She valiantly fights that injustice and forces the police to drag him to prison. It is no wonder that Gobinda’s male ego gets hurt by that incident and he becomes so enraged that in an effort to exact revenge, spreads nasty rumours about Fullara’s character. Since she is away from her husband, he blows out that she is a prostitute who makes her living via infidelity and tries to malign her character with his utmost effort. Even Gobinda was so desperate that being a sort of local leader he makes necessary arrangements to cease the subsidy that Fullara’s mother has been receiving since her husband’s death. The reality is that Gobinda was attracted to Fullara’s body and as a result, he was trying to possess her body to gratify his lust out of her, taking advantage of her isolation and poverty. But despite her poverty, Fullara valued her integrity more than money and refused to sell her self-honour despite Gobinda’s best efforts to bribe her with money. However, these are not all. The writer has shown that the patriarchal society is ever-operative in humiliating its female counterparts. So, the author introduces another instance to show the miserable plight of all women through Fullara. One day when Fullara goes to a nearby wheat mill, she finds a stranger observing her minutely. After a while, he even does not hesitate to send a note to Fullara expressing his desire to have her which simply makes her annoyed and she goes forward to him courageously to forbid him not to disturb her anymore. However, since it is the general notion of the patriarchal society that a woman is sexually available when she is out of her husband’s periphery so the person is reluctant to leave her and tries to tempt her by offering money. But her stance of refusing the temptation of money offers her dignity and ultimately her denial establishes her as an independent human being who might be poor but has an utmost sense of pride in having self-respect and courage. When she gets back home, she learns that her drunken spouse has come to get her. However, the author shows that Fullara is capable of comprehending its falsity. She knows that this action of her husband is actually a ploy to spend a night with her. So, with equal courage, she compels him to get out of their house, and in this action, she gets her mother by her side. Through all of these incidents, the writer has vividly projected the picture of a maledominated society where a lady has to face multiple threats and needs to fight

126  Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar on every occasion to sustain her life with pride and honour. Fullara stands out as a woman having the courage and consciousness to uprise the status of women in a male-controlled society. It is through her that the author has presented that women like Fullara have the courage to live gracefully with adequate self-respect. And by presenting Fullara in such a way, the author has tried to inspire all those women who are going through similar kinds of turmoil in their lives to fight against the odds created by the dominating section of our society. A similar kind of coercion is found in the short story “Jihba”4 where Anil Gharai has emphasised the terrible plight of women in our society who are economically poor. The author here in this story narrates the life saga of Behula, the heroine of the tale and a worker at a basket factory. We are exposed to her humiliations and the hostile patriarchal society’s attitude right away. Every day, a group of youngsters can be seen taunting and hooting at her as she walks home from work. Her low socioeconomic status and the fact that she is a girl make the patriarchal society’s viewpoint clear; as a result, society considers these cruel treatments just acceptable. She does, however, constantly monitor herself and work to defend herself from their disparaging words. A lame-footed lad named Lattu eventually captures her heart, but she suppresses her feelings for him due to her family’s difficult financial situation and her duty to her parents. Her older sister, however, lacks the sense of accountability that she has displayed. Behula struggles mightily to overcome poverty in order to meet her mother’s medical expenses. She once takes ten rupees from her married older sister to treat her mother, and she is constantly being pressured to pay it back, demonstrating the conflicting nature of the two sisters. However, Behula is not only concerned about her mother but also about her father. Due to extreme destitution, her father is forced to steal food from a hospital patient, for which he suffers harsh punishment. Behula emerges as a hero and takes her father back home. She saves her father from living an ignoble life instead of roaming in hospitals and eating the leftovers. Additionally, this reveals how miserable these people’s lives are. Behula sets an example of a responsible daughter who is even willing to give her life for her parents at a time when children today view their parents as a burden. Her concern for her parents is visible in her longing for marriage which she wants to suppress. She wants to get married but she thinks that her decision of getting married will eventually cost her the job at the basket factory and as a result, she would not be able to look after her parents and simultaneously would not be able to provide them sufficient financial support. She is torn within due to the conflict between her desire to get married and her responsibility as a daughter. Despite her internal strife and turmoil, a man by the name of Balaram comes to her with the intention to fix their match. She is so confident that they would get married that she shares the occasion with her friend Yashoda. However, she becomes pale when she finds Balaram talking to the group of boys, who used to taunt her because she thinks there might be a plot against

Women, Oppression and Emancipation  127 her. Her suspicions are ultimately confirmed when the boys tell the narrative about her father in an effort to sabotage the engagement. They also reveal a secret regarding her black tongue in addition to that. The local group of boys’ conspiracies against a girl to shatter her life demonstrates the everoppressive nature of the patriarchal society and the sad predicament of women in our society. The author Anil Gharai shows here how he had to succumb to their oppression quite helplessly. Gharai’s other narrative, “Pindi”5 deals with two different layers of oppression on two women and their pitiful predicament through the characters of Minu and Dulali. These two women had to deal with the tragic loss of their father and spouse, respectively, and their lives are also affected negatively by these deaths. The author has stressed in this context how patriarchal society makes the lives of women miserable who are not safeguarded by their male equivalents. After the passing of her husband Sadashib, Dulali finds herself in a difficult situation with her son Sukhi, who seems a little out of the ordinary. His teacher encourages Dulali to take him to the doctor rather than to a school because his cerebral development is not keeping up with his physical development. When Dukhi’s condition makes her life dejected, she is thrown into more deplorable conditions by the superstitious beliefs of the local folks. The tradition of the Hindu religion and its doctrines compel her to go to Gaya to offer pindi6 to her departed husband who suffered a premature death. The poverty-stricken life of Dulali prevents her from visiting the place to perform the rituals hence she falls victim to the cunningness of Kanai, the younger brother of her husband. The opportunist Kanai is shrewd enough to take possession of the property of Dulali. He offers her money if she mortgages her land to him. Dulali knows that she must carry out the rites if she wants to remain in the community; therefore, she has no choice but to accept his offer. In order to save their life, she clumsily accepts money from Kanai. The author uses this example to illustrate the oppressive helplessness that women in our society experience as a result of the patriarchal system and the chauvinistic mentality of males as well as the tyrannical Hindu rituals which forces a poor bereaved wife to lose everything to maintain the rites. Meanwhile, another girl named Minu happens to visit Dulali after losing her father due to tuberculosis. After her father’s tragic passing, her uncle, another patriarchal social agent, steps forward to add to her absolute agony. The uncle seems so heartless that taking advantage of her father’s death he wants to snatch away all the money and property from the girl. In order to fully take advantage of all her assets, he also does not want her to get married. However, the author of this novel has given her a distinct shade here. She stands out as a courageous young woman who fights the repressive system, and she deftly manages her finances by transferring her money between numerous accounts at the post office and banks. As a result of their friendship with Minu’s father and Dulali’s husband, Sadashib, she then approaches Dulali. After that, she expresses her desire to wed Dukhi, which her mother has graciously accepted. Here, we see that the writer has tried to bring a change in

128  Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar the attitude of society where a girl is seen to choose her match. It is undoubtedly a path towards the writer’s goal of female empowerment in a society where men predominate. It is Minu who is also seen to counter Kanai’s ploy to occupy their lands. She restrains and curves down the authority of the males in society through her boldness and courage. She also persuades her mother-in-law that they will visit Gaya with their ability but there is no need to accept money from such a nasty individual who wants to take advantage of their helplessness and seize their property. In this story, we see the presentation of two women who are different in character but both of them fall victim to the male dogmatic society. While Dulali has no method to fight against the guys’ exploitation and tyranny, her daughter-in-law proves herself to be a brave individual with the courage and intelligence to oppose the domineering forces. She has self-respect and education, both of which she has employed fully to their emancipation. The author succeeds in illustrating both the oppression of women and their resistance, which points to a better future. Again, in the story, “Pokaparban”,7 Gharai makes a girl named Larani, the protagonist. She has been portrayed in a way from the very beginning that prevents her from fitting the stereotype of a “nice girl” in traditional society. She deliberately denounces all the socially set rules and conventions and does everything that she prefers to do. She loves to roam across the village without her mother’s consent. She also prefers to swim alone in the pond of the Samanta and moreover, she solely can visit a faraway land crossing even three miles path to attend festivities. Larani enjoys the company of Hala, the elderly man of Haripara, whom she refers to as Hala Khuro,8 and she enjoys spending time in his house despite her own mother’s instructions. She assists him with his daily tasks by giving him drinking water, a coal-wood fire for burning bidis, and tobacco preparation. She does everything for two reasons, first of all, she loves to hear fascinating stories from this old man, and simultaneously she has a liking for the son of this old man, Pabna, which she conveys to her dear friend. And these double attractions drag her there even ignoring the abject poverty that she along with her mother is destined to suffer. Since our society indoctrinates females with the idea that marriage is the culmination of a girl’s life, she secretly harbours a yearning to wed Pabna. This idea is also evident in her companion Menaka, who expresses her irritation when telling Larani about the odd insects’ attack that destroys paddy fields and causes havoc. She regrets recalling her father’s intention to settle her marriage that year if they have a good rice harvest. She feels bereaved thinking about her shattered yearning of getting married with the destruction of crops. Additionally, we observe that Hala, the elderly man, and his wife, like Larani as their prospective daughter-in-law. They both want to imagine her as the spouse of Pabna, their one and only child, who appears as a vagabond and is very whimsical in attending to his own house even. Larani is not beautiful in the general notion of the term but they consider her to be a very

Women, Oppression and Emancipation  129 virtuous and qualitative girl who has the ability to manage the entire household affairs alone. Alongside these qualities, we also find in her a mind which is free from all sorts of superstitions and prejudices. When the entire village holds a lady, the wife of Subal dom,9 responsible for the attack of insects and the subsequent loss of harvest, she stands by her side boldly. While her friend Menaka informs her that the wife of Subal dom has invited all the troubles for the entire village by burning a fish and eating it during an early evening, she defends the lady by saying that there is no harm if a pregnant lady takes a fish as part of her meal. She rightly believes that eating fish has no relationship with the insects that ruin the harvest. Moreover, she is clever enough to identify the caste politics in this regard that this is the ploy of the old village priest, by caste a Brahmin, who wants to make responsible a low-caste girl for all the problems. Gharai presents through Larani the age-old oppressive caste system that makes the lives of the lower-caste people miserable. They are always held responsible for all sorts of troubles in society and they are to sacrifice everything, including their lives due to the conspiracy of the uppercaste people. However, the villagers hold religious rites to overcome all of these bug threats and to stop the attack on the harvests. In the meantime, Pabna, the son of old Hala, returns to the village after a protracted period of feverish illness with a frail physique. However, his arrival makes Larani much elated and despite their acute poverty, she kills their pet rooster, which was kept to be sold in expectation of some money, and cooks that only for Pabna. She goes to Pabna’s house to meet him with the chicken but is unable to locate him there. She, therefore, travels to the school building in the hopes of finding him there, but when she gets there, she discovers him having an intimate relationship with her friend Menaka, which leaves her completely distraught. She tosses away the bowl containing her cooked chicken and loses all of her dreams at once, but she does nothing to Menaka, who was aware of her fascination with Pabna. Despite having no desire to eat, she returns home in silence and begins to eat anyhow in order to follow the customs of the community and sacrifice her personal suffering and heartbreak over a failed love affair in exchange for excellent crops. With the gulp of rice, she smells of the meat and that smell does not arouse any vomit rather her tears roll down on her plate of rice. She aspires that her tears will bring in a new rise of good harvests eradicating all the darkness brought on by insect attack. She sets aside all of her personal sufferings in order to advance the village and society as a whole. Gharai’s eponymous short story “Bindiya”10 depicts the mistreatment and suffering of a particular tribe named Banjara,11 a formerly de-notified tribe, at the hands of the police which is an important government wing and who are supposed to maintain law and order alongside upholding human rights. The story not only shows the sad predicament and sexual exploitation of the Banjara people but also the robust attitude of the heroine of this story, Bindiya, to resist and counterattack the oppressive system. The way the society deals

130  Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar with these tribes who were formerly held as criminal tribes makes them feel, “This samaj12 is not good. The sordid people who creep about in this samaj are not good; their life is marked with obscenity and immorality” (Gharai 4). Here, Gharai in his short story “Bindiya” shows the sexual exploitation of these people to the extreme level even at the hands of police for which to them “most dangerous were the lecherous Khaki uniformed ones” (Gharai 4). This observation is somehow proved to be true if we look at a recent film Jai Bhim13 which shows the sad predicament of another tribe, Irula of South India. The khaki-clad people are flesh greedy and their coarse, nasty eyes widened at the mere sight of the young women. The women from this Banjara community have been coveted by them because of their warm colouring, active, slim physique, rough-hewn faces and vibrant, deep brown eyes. The police officials used to order the women to go to the neighbourhood police station and spend some time with them. Otherwise, they would warn them of the serious repercussions if they do not obey their instructions. And for generations, their women have been forced to go only to be assaulted by these policemen throughout the night. The men would wait helplessly in the shacks upon their return the following morning. The women whom the police officers compare with fresh flowers appear even more repulsive than flowers that had been ruthlessly crushed when they return with evidence of repeated cruel consummation. Their hushed sobbing testifies to their loss and the male counterparts of these tormented women have nothing to do at all since they are all aware of the dreadful consequence of that unequal fight – “Strong and ruthless with their hunger for flesh, they had robbed the virginity and chastity of so many Munnis and Lachmis and Bhanumatis” (Gharai 6). Bindiya, the central character of this story, has to observe all these experiences since her childhood days. The observation of Sharmila Rege fits this context: In case of the lower caste women the fact that their labour outside the family is crucial for the survival of the family, leads to the lack of stringent controls on their labour, mobility and sexuality and this renders them ‘impure’ or ‘lacking in virtue’. In several instances the rape of lower caste women may not be considered as rate at all because of the customary access that the upper caste men have had to lower caste women’s sexuality. (29–30) The readers can guess that being a member of that community, Bindiya is going to meet similar experiences. And that happens when at the threshold of her youth, she encounters a middle-aged pot-bellied policeman whom she meets at a police station. The policeman is very elated observing such a beautiful woman in front of him thinking her to be a new prey. When she prays to him to let her go, he directly asks, “What will you give me if I let you go?” (Gharai 9). When she offers flowers to decorate his rooms, he exposes his real intention, “Flowers! Plastic flowers! What would I need them for? Especially

Women, Oppression and Emancipation  131 when you are with me- a beautiful, budding flower!” (Gharai 9). This is the way the policemen usually look at the girls from these communities as they think that these girls are always sexually available. That kind of treatment resulted in the death of another girl from their community named Munni who could not endure the humiliations and pains of being a victim of the policemen and hung herself from the tree near to their hut. Bindiya knows that she is badly trapped and she has no way rather than accepting his proposal. So, she agrees to visit him privately in the darkness of night but the policeman is not convinced at all and as a result, he threatens her with serious repercussions if she fails to come. After returning to her place, Bindiya could not focus on her day-to-day activities since the promise is made against her will and she is not at all willing to visit the police station. When she discloses everything in front of Ramlal, her kinsman, and her mother, Bhanumati, who was also sexually exploited earlier by these people, they decide that Bindiya will not visit the police station and Bhanumati will go instead to pacify the issue. However, this move infuriates the police officer who observing Bhanumati shouts out, “I will teach her a lesson. I will squeeze every drop of her youthful beauty” (Gharai 12) and moves forward with other police personnel to their temporary settlement in search of Bindiya. And when they are unable to find out Bindiya, they start throwing their belongings and beating Ramlal. This pathetic sight of beating and throwing which Bindiya is observing from afar brings her there despite knowing the consequence of such arrival. Here we see that Bindiya, though a woman, does not hesitate to risk her life to save the life of aged Ramlal. The courageous attitude of Bindiya is seen right here when she readily decides to visit the police station accompanying them to save her family and community people, “Come Babu, let’s go. When I have given you my word, I will go. The banjaras do not go back on their words” (Gharai 12). However, we know that Bindiya, wants to live a life with dignity just like other women, she wants to have a normal life with a family and a permanent shelter. She is afraid of the traditions of humiliation and assaults on their community women. So, when she was alone with the policeman, who was accompanying her to the police station, gathering all her courage, she requests him to marry her and offer her a decent life. She implores: “Then take me home Babu, marry me. I like to have a family, a home of my own.” Tears started rolling down her cheeks yet she continued, “Our life is full of ups and downs, it is not stable. My mother could not save herself. People like you have used her as a commodity. I do not want that. Give me a shelter please.” (Gharai 13) But it is certain enough that these so-called sophisticated people do not even think of marrying girls like Bindiya; rather, they use them as the providers of

132  Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar sexual pleasures. These people treat them not as human beings but rather as mere commodities. As a result, Bindiya’s appeal enrages the policeman who turns down her proposal angrily. But later he makes it clear that though he is not interested to marry her, he is very much willing to have sexual pleasure with her. Thus, Gharai has exposed the hypocritical face of the society where the so-called aristocratic people are conscious about their position not to marry a low caste girl out of their caste or social pride but they are very much eager to enjoy their body and at that moment they forget all their caste pride or social status. Hence, the approaching of the policeman with his lustful attitude towards Bindiya not only reminds her of the pathetic tale of Munni, another girl from their community, or the saga of her own mother Bhanumati but the deplorable status of all the women due to the existence of these kinds of people. So, she thinks that it is people like her who need to take responsibility to protect their honour and chastity by herself. “Munni had said goodbye to the proud world. But she would not give up the struggle so easily” and takes out the knife that she had kept with her and stabs him, “What Munni could not do, what her mother could not do, Bindya did that perfectly” (Gharai 13). This action of Bindiya is beyond the imagination of people who have been suppressed by the oppressive system for ages but though being a woman, Bindiya gains courage and does it by herself which pushes these women forward towards their emancipation. Gharai here through the character of Bindiya upholds the women’s power who can actively participate in their liberation from their bondage. While women like Bhanumati couldn’t think of resistance from girls like Munni or Bindiya, it is the writer Gharai who attributes them their power so that they can snatch away their due rights in this patriarchal oppressive caste-dominated society. So, when Bindiya accompanies the policeman to the police station, Bhanumati is terrified of having another devastating incident like Munni and observing traumatised Bindiya’s early return readily advises her not to hang herself since committing suicide is a sin. Her words come out of her memory of Munni and she thought that Bindiya, just like Munni, received physical assaults from the police officers which she may not endure. But Bindiya expresses her ardent desire to live freely and happily in the lap of her mother making society a safe place for girls like her, so she sobs out “I want to live mother, life is to be lived; and to be lived fully and joyfully. I want to live as a flower adorning the roadside” (Gharai 14). This picture upholds the reality of the lower-caste women in this system who are to depend on the mercy of the males who use them merely as a commodity, a plaything which has been observed and rightly portrayed by the writer. Being a representative of the lower-caste marginalised society, Anil Gharai has rightly portrayed the miserable plights of women from different angles and the different layers of oppression based on caste and gender on women. He has observed how the women of lower caste are doubly marginalised, how they are tortured at the hands of their family members as well by the

Women, Oppression and Emancipation  133 society. Prof. Dasgupta rightly commented that Gharai has successfully captured “the subaltern reality of the so-called progressive Marxist state with great literary observation” (Gharai x). He has not only narrated their pains and anguish but lent them a voice to counter the oppressive society. And in that way, Anil Gharai stands out as a champion in rightly addressing his concerns over the miserable plights of women and in offering them the courage to snatch away their emancipation. Notes 1 “Kalketu” is a Bengali text and has not been translated yet. The Bengali text is available in Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories published from Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing in 2014. 2 A sort of opium, Ganja is one of the oldest and most commonly used synonyms for marijuana. Its usage in English dates to before 1689. 3 Means boss or superior authority. 4 “Jihba” (means tongue) is a Bengali text and has not been translated yet. The Bengali text is available in Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories published from Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing in 2014. 5 “Pindi” is a Bengali text and has not been translated yet. The Bengali text is available in Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories published from Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing in 2014. 6 Piṇḍas are balls of cooked rice mixed with ghee and black sesame seeds offered to ancestors during Hindu funeral rites (Antyesti) and ancestor worship (Śrāddha). According to traditions in the Garuda Puran, offering a pinda to a recently departed soul helps to unite the soul with its ancestors. https://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Pinda_(riceball) 7 “Pokaparban” is a Bengali text and has not been translated yet. The Bengali text is available in Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories published from Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing in 2014. 8 Popular form of a slang meaning “uncle”, widely circulated in folk parlance. 9 Dom is a lower-caste community of the Hindu religion. They are marked as untouchable and are primarily engaged in handling and dissection of corpse, burial and cremation. 10 The story has been translated into English by Anuradha Sen and appears in the volume Almond Flowers and Other Stories edited by Indranil Acharya published from Orient Blackswan Private Limited in 2022. 11 The Banjara (also known as Vanzara, Labana, Lambadi) is a historically nomadic trading caste who may have origins in the Mewar region of what is now Rajasthan. 12 Refers to the tribal social administration which functions autonomously. 13 Jai Bhim (transl. Victory to Bhim) is a 2021 Indian Tamil-language period legal drama film directed by T. J. Gnanavel and produced by Jyothika and Suriya under 2D Entertainment. The film stars Suriya, Lijomol Jose and Manikandan, with Rajisha Vijayan, Prakash Raj, Rao Ramesh and others in supporting roles. The film deals with the subject of police bias and state violence against a marginalised community. Based on a true incident in 1993, which involves a case fought by Justice K. Chandru, it revolves around the lives of Sengeni and Rajakannu, a couple from the Irular tribe. Rajakannu was arrested by the police and was later missing from the police station. Sengeni seeks the help of an advocate Chandru to seek justice for her husband. Cited in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jai_Bhim_(film).

134  Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar and Suniti Sarkar References Gharai, Anil, “Bindiya.” Trans. Anuradha Sen. The Almond Flowers and Other Stories. Indranil Acharya (ed.). Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan Private Limited, 2022. 1–14. ———, “Jihba.” Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014. 39–51. ———, “Kalketu.” Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014. 21–33. ———, “Noonbari”. Trans. Anuradha Sen. Janajati Darpan. Indranil Acharya (ed.). Kolkata: Knowledge Bank Publishers & Distributors, 2021. ———, “Pindi.” Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014. 52–55. ———, “Pokaparban.” Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014. 66–77. ———. Sera Panchasti Galpa: A Collection of Bengali Short Stories. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2014. ———. The Almond Flowers and Other Stories. Indranil Acharya (ed.). Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan Private Limited, 2022. Guru, Gopal. “Dalit Women Talk Differently”. Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. 30, No. 41/42, October 14–21, 1995. Rege, Sharmila. Caste and Gender: The Violence Against Women in India. Working Paper, Florence: European University Institute, 1996.

V

Interview

14 Interview Interview of Anil Gharai

In this chapter, Sunil Maji interviews Anil Gharai about his life, career, the process of writing and his influences. Anil Gharai is one of those Dalit writers of Bengal who had the opportunity of observing the miserable plight of the downtrodden people from close quarters. He authored seventy-four books and received many prestigious awards, including Dalit Sahitya Akademi Award. His stories portray the life of those who have been exploited down the generations and who still survive to carry on the stigma of their forefathers. The interviewer, Sunil Maji, worked in the Indian Air Force for twenty years. After superannuation, he took up the vocation of a writer under the able guidance of Anil Gharai. Sunil has co-authored three anthologies of poetry. His poems have also been translated into Hindi. Sunil Maji – Let me begin on a very personal note. You left your ancestral village at quite an early age. What thoughts hover around your mind when you think of Rukminipur? Anil Gharai – One particular thing that I remember is the big haystack from which I once fell miserably after climbing its top and injured myself, and of course the pain. Our house used to be surrounded with dense thickets of trees with a pond nearby. My mind often goes back to them. Sunil Maji – The physical injury, as you have said, has left its mark on your mind. Did the trees and nature have the same impact? Anil Gharai – Undoubtedly! Not just the trees or the pond with its crystal clear water but also the kalmi sag,1 the crane, the parrot and the expansive field with its ethereal beauty. In the month of November, after the harvest season, chikni sag2 used to grow all over the field … all these have left an indelible mark on my mind. Sunil Maji – Is there anything else that you really miss and long for? Anil Gharai – Some of the things that I really miss and long for are the innocence, the sincere benevolence and the warm behaviour of the village folk. Sunil Maji – One thing that I am really curious of is what unseen power brought you to the world of literature and writing from a completely different field of engineering? Anil Gharai – I like reading, and I read books on varied subjects. Our Bengali teacher in school often used to tell me not to give up reading. DOI: 10.4324/9781032638713-20

138  Interview of Anil Gharai His way of teaching Bengali literature has always enthralled me… I feel my love for literature can be traced back to those days. Sunil Maji – Were you the publisher of your first anthology, Kak? Anil Gharai – No certainly not. I did not have the means then. My publisher, strange though it might sound, was a group of a tailor, a grocer, a vegetable seller- those few youths with whom I shared a dark room, during my student days at Jadavpur. At that time, I used to teach school children to support myself. Sometimes I used to read out my writings to my roommates, curious as they were. It was my good luck that they came forward, contributed the money that was needed for the publication of the collection from their meagre earnings. This was a turning point in my life. Sunil Maji – Would you like to elaborate? Anil Gharai – Life is like a river meandering ceaselessly, yet there are times when we turn back. Those unschooled, untutored roommates might have found traces of their unvoiced secrets in my stories. Else why would they come forward so spontaneously? It was then that I decided to publish my works independently in order to represent the unrepresented section of our society. Sunil Maji – Your works mostly voice the plight of the marginalized communities. Is it because you somehow felt that the mainstream writers obliviated their existence in their writings or because you hail from such a community? Anil Gharai – I always wanted to portray what I saw and what lay within me. There is no fabrication or exaggeration in my writing. Whatever I have seen, whatever has touched the inner depths of my being; I have tried to articulate. Sunil Maji – Is it always so? Doesn’t the author’s imagination matter at all? Anil Gharai – Whatever I write is the reality, the very touch of the alluvial soil, the fragrance of the mud. Every character, every situation in my writings has been drawn from my first-hand experience and observation. Imagination does matter, but I think it is not enough to let imagination determine the stylistic attributes of the work. Sunil Maji – Do you believe that a bond between life and characters really matters in authoring a narrative or is it only a figment of imagination that propels a narrative towards fruition? Anil Gharai – I do believe so because to me a story is not just an imaginative utopia. It is rather a blending of realism and imagination. Life cannot dwell on dreams. Dreams exist; they widen our mental arena and with it come hope and longing and most essentially the desire for achievement. However, for all these, one has to toil. A story or a novel is a depiction of life expressed in different ways like sketching, painting or writing. It is a work of art that offers delight. So the bond has to be strong and reality should be overtly visible.

Interview  139 Sunil Maji – Which factors do you consider to be the most essential and useful in the process of creative writing? Is the process something similar to a child growing up in its mother’s womb, with love and care? Anil Gharai – To a certain extent, it is so. Sometimes it so happens that with the transition of time a particular event or an incident that took place some fifteen or sixteen or may be many years ago settles down in some remote corner of the mind whereas if you think about it, it once had a profound impact on you. Then one day it jolts your inner universe. Like the fervid protestations of the unborn baby in the womb, its movement in the mind of the writer is quite effectual. But, you see, premature delivery is harmful to both the mother and her child; unripe or overripened crops or fruits often result in waste. It is just the same with the art of writing. The point is we have to make use of the right material at the right time. Story writing is the outburst of a thoughtful creative process. It becomes all the more challenging when the incident takes its form long after the original moment of conception... So how far that will be a realistic amalgamation of thought, matter and words depends entirely on the writer’s skill and ability. Most importantly, it depends on hard work. For a writer’s feelings are modified by his own thoughts which are indeed a representation of all his past feelings and emotions that help him to see the distant matter in the mirror of his mind, in the tablets of memory and visualization. Sunil Maji – Have you woven your own style of writing? If so how and when did it happen? Anil Gharai – Every human being is endowed with an identity that he can call his very own, so is the writer. Through his writing, a writer creates his own language, and by language, in this case, I mean his style or art of writing. It is not that the language is free from flaws and beautiful in all respects. But every person has a few favourite words that he uses time and again and this holds the key to the writer’s style of writing. It acts as a conduit between the subject matter and the writer’s expression. Sunil Maji – Every writer, sooner or later, aims to convey a message through his writings. What do you wish to convey to your readers? Anil Gharai – In this context it is imperative to remember that the writer like other human beings has a set of his own opinions; his own ideals and he desires to speak about it. I wish to speak about a particular community of people; their lives; their past and their present. I wish to advise my readers to think about them. In order to do so, I need a powerful medium and that is my writing. I do not claim that I have been successful in reaching out to the mass or the mainstream readership in the manner I wish to about the voiceless sections of the society. But it is true that I strive to do so in my own way to bring to the fore the social evils that haunt me perpetually. Sunil Maji – The downtrodden, the marginalized people you speak of are poor but genuine. For a short time, they might have trodden the wrong path only to fall into a pit. But they have returned to the right path. There is a

140  Interview of Anil Gharai passive revolt brewing in these people. What message are you trying to put forward in this regard? Anil Gharai – It is a message that I carry within me. I was a reader before I became a writer. Believe me; no one is born dishonest or treacherous. He is as genuine as nature that surrounds us. But the societal norms; the political and social conditions; the economic backwardness along with the typically linear trajectory of social oppressions at the individual and family level, persuade him to digress from his innate nature. And thus the individual is compelled to live on the margins rather than in the centre. They are often dehumanized and viewed with scornfulness and contempt. This is what I try to convey. I cannot write and will not write about anything that is not an actuality; that is not tangible. I have witnessed the persecuted and the exploited folks of my tribe. Ninety nine per cent of them revolt passively and the meagre one per cent left would wish to revolt actively. But they are always the losers, defeated as they are by the cunning and the crafty upper castes. I do not try to push any character in my mind and then write about it; rather I try to feel their dreams, their desires and their problems from the depth of my being. Through their eyes, I see the society, the country, nature, the love and faith that surround human beings and which inspire us in our struggle for survival. Sunil Maji – Your published works are many in number. Do they express any concern for the downtrodden? Anil Gharai – I have practically expressed nothing, for there is not enough time and that is painful. I was born in a lower middle class family owing to which I had to work hard for a square meal and sort out financial problems too. Sunil Maji – What if there were no such problems? Anil Gharai – Then I would have fulfilled all my wishes as an author. If I had to write a novel about a particular place or a tribe then I would not only read books concerning them but would also live with them to gather authentic knowledge about everything that mattered. For only then would my writing stand the test of time. I believe a writer should consume the water of the sea to find out how salty it is; study the facial expressions and body language of those who are to be his characters; confront the seasonal changes that affect them and their struggle and only then can I get an inclusive image, a painting of diverse colours. Actually, you know, there is a life beyond life and without this perception, there can be no poetry, no grace, no beauty in the story or the novel. Authors of the antiquity believed, what does not have an umbilical relation with the texture of human nature is not literature but only a decorative verbiage. My opinions align with that belief system. Sunil Maji – After the publication of Stories of the Downtrodden, some were of the opinion that it was good; a few said it could have been better; the remaining few opined that it was not possible to translate your stories for the audacious metaphors and the bold use of the peculiar dialects that you employed. What do you have to say about this?

Interview  141 Anil Gharai – There is always a scope for improvement. Works of translation may be difficult but not impossible. It requires sound skill and knowledge in both the languages. All languages are distinctive in its linguistic qualities and at the same time there will always be some culture specific words that are difficult to translate. Sunil Maji – You have been honoured with many awards for your literary creations. What are your feelings about them? Anil Gharai – It is said that with great power comes great responsibilities. So the conferment of awards would definitely bring in greater responsibility. I never thought I would receive awards. Well I am happy to have received so many. Sunil Maji – Do you remember the major awards you have received? Anil Gharai – Yes I remember a few - Sahitya Puraskar from Bangla Academy, Kolkata, West Bengal, Michael Madhusudan Puraskar, Sopan Sahitya Puraskar, Bharat Excellency Award and Gold Medal, New Delhi from the then Chief Election Commissioner, Sanskriti Puraskar 1991, New Delhi from Dr. Shankar Dayal Sharma, the then Vice-President of India. Sunil Maji- Can’t thank you enough, Anilda for giving your valuable time to me and for sharing so much of you with me. I shall always cherish this dialogue with you. Interviewed by Sunil Maji. Translated from the original Bengali interview into English by Aishwarya Banerjee. Originally published in Sashwato Chhinno Patro. Kolkata: Dey’s Publishing, 2008, pp. 422–430. Notes 1  Water Spinach. 2  Tender greens found in paddy fields.